


See, This is the Problem With Dying

by auxbloood



Series: How Strange It is, to Be Anything At All My Dear [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Android Hank Anderson, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Hank Anderson, Broken Promises, Concerts, Connor is a Mess (Detroit: Become Human), Dad Jokes, Detectives In Love, Emotional Hurt, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, Falling In Love, Fate & Destiny, Good Dog Sumo (Detroit: Become Human), Graphic Description, Grief/Mourning, Hand & Finger Kink, Hank Anderson Swears, Hank Anderson is Bad at Feelings, Identity Issues, Identity Porn, Identity Reveal, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Loss, M/M, Mild Gore, Musical References, Partners to Lovers, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Roughness, Self-Discovery, Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues, Sexual Interfacing, Submissive Hank Anderson, Top Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Trust Issues, pet the damn dog
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:02:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 69,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26567023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auxbloood/pseuds/auxbloood
Summary: Hank Anderson is going to die, and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it.So what else could possibly go wrong along the way?And when you get a second chance, another life, another body, how do you stop yourself from telling a certain android ‘I love you,’ when you return?Should you?
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor, Hank Anderson/Original Character(s), Upgraded Connor | RK900/Gavin Reed
Series: How Strange It is, to Be Anything At All My Dear [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1939978
Comments: 183
Kudos: 89





	1. The End of the World as I Know it and I Don’t Feel Fine

**Author's Note:**

> Bonus HankCon Spotify playlist: <https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0LXqmd7VQcvZDZsSf6UH3A?si=ekqXFrRCQIu8Aq7gcHK2HA>
> 
> This work is a companion piece to my Reed900 fic, “Reflections in a Saffron-Red Window,” but can be enjoyed separate!
> 
> Their timelines occasionally intertwine when appropriate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit 10/01: Raised the rating to Explicit due to future horny jail and description of suicide and ideation.

//

_This message may contain sensitive health information. Please exercise your own discretion when initiating playback._

_Good afternoon Mr. Anderson, this is Jack Prebauer’s office calling you with an update on your labs. Now, it’s my understanding that he already went over the possible results from your biopsy so I’d like you to please reach out immediately if you have any questions regarding your prognosis. Normally we wouldn’t discuss this kind of thing over the phone but since you won’t actually come in to see us. . .I’m going to just detail a few things here, and we really do need you to try and physically see us at some point, so try and make that happen when you can._

_Laboratory reports confirm Dr. Prebauer’s prior diagnosis, it’s still late stage cirrhosis and ESLD. That T-Cell therapy that he mentioned to you last week is, unfortunately, not going to be available at this point so I’d like to give you a few brief options here as far as quality of care for the next three months. Anyone dealing with variceal bleeding this severe really needs someone at home in case of a hemorrhage so if you know anyone that can stay, or be with you at this time, I’d really suggest that. It might also be good in as far as handling your affairs, having someone close by to go over details, so again, we suggest sorting these things within roughly 90 days. . ._

//

“Hank, you can quit waving that piece of paper in my goddamn face, you and I both know you didn’t quit the last nine times you pulled this bullshit and it ain’t gonna be today.”

Fowler takes it seriously when Hank doesn’t yell back. No sarcastic, self deprecating humor.

He just stares at him. Just stares at him, and he leaves, the smudged little paper sitting neatly on the corner. Fowler grabs it with sweaty palms as the clear door swings shut, but Hank doesn’t stick around for him to read it.

The same thirteen steps to his desk, and Hank’s grabbing about three things before deciding he doesn’t have the goddamn patience to clean up everything like he should. Picture of Sumo, chipped coffee cup stained black on the inside, and—

“Lieutenant, are we moving somewhere?”

Fuck, fuck, _fuck._

There’s all the cliché in the world about ‘how you’re going to tell them,’ but none of the Hollywood bullshit equates to the real thing.

Connor just stares at him, cocking his head ten degrees to the side with those wondering wide eyes and the definition of concern.

“Perhaps to a different desk or floor? I’m shocked you’d give in to relocation after nearly twenty years. You almost had an aneurism when I moved in next to you, if you recall.”

And the goddamn android gives him that grin. That small little half-smile because he still so friggin’ unsure of himself when he cracks a joke even after two years as partners. Two goddamn years. Hank feels his chest pump a beat or two out of rhythm, and clutches the desk just a little bit tighter.

This is the part where some people break down. Some poor schmuck starts weeping in the middle of the precinct, tears welling in his beady eyes while he sinks to the ground, bawling.

Poor

_Fucking_

Me.

Hank Anderson is not that man. Hank Anderson doesn’t break down and reveal his whole life story. Hank Anderson casts a glance over his shoulder to the glass box and the man within it.

Fowler is looking at him with an unreadable expression, something Hank would describe between pity and solidarity.

‘Don’t tell anyone.’

An unwritten pact between them.

So Hank says nothing.

He doesn’t say a goddamn word, and he shoves his way past the hundred and one pounds of ultralight, durable, concerned plastic between him and the precinct garage door without a sound, three things in tow.

A photo.

A mug.

And his fucking cowardice.

Isn’t there some joke about all of them walking into a bar?

He tries to think of something clever while he shoves the keys in the ignition, and throws the hulking beater in reverse, and sputters out of the station garage. Connor’s in the rear-view mirror jogging after him, perplexed. Hurt. Confused. He deserves a goddamn explanation, but he just can’t give it to him.

A good joke never comes to mind. Maybe his brain is fried from all the painkillers from the hospital they’d pumped in him the past few weeks, trying to figure out what was going on. Maybe it’s the reflection in the rear view mirror as he drives away, that rosy android bottom lip being chewed clean though in the last image he’ll have of the one person who could maybe begin to understand.

Maybe it’s just Hank.

Yeah.

That sounds about right.

//

Two months later, and his voicemail has been chock full from when he got home on day one.

“Hey Hank, just wanted to check up on—

“Hank, buddy, you’re just gonna up and quit the DPD and not tell a fuckin’—“

“Yo, shithead, Fowler says you’ve gotta send someone to clean out your garbage can of a desk—“

“I’m sorry to bother you Lieutenant, but I insist you call me when you get the chance.”

Those are the worst. The little disparaging noises coming from the answering machine in Connor’s singsong voice. All the worry, all the disdain at not knowing who, or why, or what in the world is going on.

Doesn’t matter.

It’s two months later and according to some fuck with a PhD, Hank Anderson has about one to go. Life’s full of fucking misery and irony, and it saved it all for him. He’d spent the last two years building himself back up again, convincing himself that maybe he’d been too harsh along the way, that after twenty years of self-inflicted misery he should consider respecting himself again.

Two years spent with the highest clearance rate the DPD had ever seen. The fuckin’ dynamic duo.

Two years away from single-malt alcohol because ‘the health effects outweigh the thill of a few-hours high.’

Two years of eating fucking, goddamn salad for lunch because the tin-can put bacon bits in and somehow made low-fat dressing taste delicious.

Hell, he could run a ten minute mile again thanks to the little bastard insisting he should get into shape.

But there was the whole world, fucking him over again.

_“We’re so sorry Mr. Anderson, but it’s stage four. There’s really not much we can do besides make you comfortable.”_

Two years out of the last ten spent giving a damn, and this is how the world repays him.

By killing him.

Who the hell coined that phrase anyway? ‘Make you comfortable?’ _Living_ would make him comfortable. Not staring down the barrel of a _completely wasted fucking life_ would make him ‘comfortable.’

Fifty-something years, A good chunk of it spent at the bottom of a whiskey glass and now he’s got a definitive diagnosis to wrap it all up in a pretty little bow. God, how frickin’ annoying. Just when he thought he could maybe, maybe get his shit back together, the universe comes back with a vengeance.

Fuck Hank 2: Electric Boogaloo.

He makes sure he sends Fowler a text telling him to make sure Connor doesn’t show up at the front door.

He spends so many days thinking about how in end-of-life regrets in movies and TV shows, they don’t do it justice. Nothing compares to the finality of the real thing. The nauseous wave of ‘could have beens’ that he can’t do a single thing about.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t ever leave the United States.’

‘I’m sorry I never started that nü metal tribute band I always wanted to.’

‘I’m sorry I didn’t punch Reed in that smug little face one more time, and then buy him a beer right after.’

‘I’m sorry I didn’t push harder for Chen to get that promotion I could have nailed for her, she should have been a detective by now.’

‘I’m sorry that Sumo won’t understand why I’m not there anymore when I go.’

‘I’m sorry I didn’t have the fucking balls to ask that stupid hunk of plastic out to dinner. How many times did he tell you he didn’t care if he couldn’t eat? He just wanted to spend more time with you.’

It’s amazing how many bad, horrible things you can beat yourself up with when you’re lying in bed twelve hours a day with a needle in your arm.

Oh well. What was Hank supposed to do about it now?

Add it to the fucking list.

It’s not like he’s ever been short on failures.

Now he’ll die famous for them.

//

The weeks fly by. He can’t remember to count them when they come to pass.

One night he finds he can’t feel Sumo anymore.

The stupid mutt had tried to lay down with him last night, rub that slobbery cold nose all over his forearm like he always does to force the scratch behind his ears. But he couldn’t feel a thing. The vague pressure didn’t break through the drug-addled haze. Sumo whined right into his ear before he really noticed he was there.

”I’m sorry you big furball. I’m so goddamn sorry.”

That fucking quack doctor said he had three months before things really got bad. Before the end would finally begin to come.

He’s supposed to have another two weeks goddamn it.

Jesus. . . Is it only going to get worse before the end?

He cries himself to sleep while he holds onto a numb body and secretly wishes the universe would hurry it up already.

//

He tries to pick up the phone exactly one time. His thumb hovers over the contact list, towering over the letters C-O-N-N-O-R.

The stupid thing trembles violently in his hand.

Do it.

Do it you goddamn, piece of shit _coward_.

Don’t let him read about you in some morning headline. Or hear it from fucking Reed.

 _Do it_.

It falls from his strengthless, skin-cracked fingers.

The phone shatters on the floor. A lonely crevasse rises from the corner to the top. It strikes some disgustingly symbolic line right through his contact name.

~~CONNOR~~

He leaves the thing on the floor, and it shines into the empty living room until it dies where it fell.

He will never make that call.

//

He spends most of his time high, or sleeping, or sleeping while high because the pain is utterly unbearable.

He begs the palliative care nurse that stops by twice a day to bump up the IV drip’s morphine threshold, but she refuses to do it. Something about ‘ethics’ and ‘standards.’ When she says no, Hank gets belligerent, and begins to throw the room around. He manages to put a crack in the TV with a little ceramic statue shaped like Sumo. Connor had given it to him last Christmas. He’ll cry later that night when he finds it on the ground, broken in two, realizes what he’s done.

He picks up a heavy chair sitting in the corner, somehow, and he manages to rip the IV right out of his arm. It digs up a vein along the way and he bleeds like a fucking stuck pig. Somehow he convinces the nurse to drive him to a clinic instead of the ER. Something tells him he’d be dead in a few hours if he was admitted to the hospital. That in that scenario, he’d just give up.

Something too final about it all.

The late-shift nurse at the 24 hour clinic bandages his arm, and it’s black and blue for days. The IV has to go in the other side now, and the old nurse refuses to come back after his episode. Some new lady shows up, and she isn’t nearly as gentle. When the needle goes in, it stings like a bitch every time.

Consequences.

//

Hank figures it’s about 3:00 in the morning and this annoying commercial comes on.

His eyes are donut-glazed over, staring listlessly at the TV because it’s really all he can find the energy to do now.

It does that kind of trilling, hopeful, uplifting jingle that late night ads always use and some smarmy little fuck in a lab coat comes into the frame.

_Here at Cyberlife, innovation is always around the corner._

_Since the Android Independence event, we’ve shifted our focus to developing new technologies for every day humans, get them up to speed with the world’s new Supermen and Superwomen._

_We ask ourselves every day: how can we level the playing field?_

_We have hundreds of bleeding edge technologies the works, and some of them promise real, lasting, and significant change for every living thing._

_But with every great leap in science, there are those who must take those brave new steps into the new frontier._

_If you or a loved one are interested in helping Cyberlife develop the future, give us a call. We have dozens of active clinical trials concerning supplements to organ repair and dozens of projects in between. We are always on the lookout for eager candidates who are dedicated to the same dynamic change that we are._

_You can reach us at. . ._

. . .

. . .

. . .

“Cyberlife Industries Clinical Division, how may I assist you today?”

“Yeah, uh, hi. . . Look, I uh, don’t really know what to ask about here. . . I guess I’ll just brass tacks things, but I-I’ve got a real bad problem with my liver. ESLD is what they call it, stage-4 cirrhosis, hepatic encepha-something. . . basically just ‘bad‘. . . Anyway, I saw this stupid commercial and I don’t know why the hell I’m calling you people, of all things, but I guess I didn’t know if you had anything with like, organ repair going on? Transplants or something? You’re about the last people I wanna call but I uh, haven’t been able to qualify for other trials before. Too far gone.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that, sir.”

“Anderson. Uh, Hank Anderson.”

“Well, Hank, I don’t think we have any developments concerned with liver damage or repair that are in the trial stage at the moment, and I’m sorry to tell you that.”

“Oh.”

. . .

“Well thanks anyway I’ll—“

“One moment, though. There may be something else here that would apply to your current situation. You said you were in an end-stage liver failure?”

“That’s right.”

“Excuse me for being blunt, but your prognosis estimates how long for you?”

“. . . It was three months almost three months ago.”

“I see.”

“Yeah, I’m basically throwing a holy fucking hand grenade out into the great blue yonder, right?”

“Mr. Anderson, believe it or not, we’re looking for someone just like yourself for an immediate placement. I can’t make any promises, but. . . You might be the ideal candidate. And I can promise that if you do qualify, it would solve your liver issues.”

“. . .You’re shittin’ me.”

“Honestly we’d love to see you right away. How soon can you be here? We can send a car if you’d like.”

Hank sets the phone down next to him in disbelief, shaking his head, almost annoyed at the cosmos. How fucking dare he be offered some sliver of hope now.

How dare them.

He runs a calloused hand across his sunken cheeks and glances around the room while he thinks. Brown, sad walls. Bed sheets that haven’t been washed in half a year. Bowls upon bowls piled in the corner because it hurts too much to walk all the way to the kitchen garbage anymore. Automatic food and water feeder for the dog. Leash collecting dust. TV remote with the numbers worn away. Blood and pus dribbled on the carpet from too many damn needles. It smells like death and old dog in there.

He sends a text for Fowler to come pick up Sumo.

“I’ll get a fucking cab now.”


	2. No, Mr. Anderson, We Want You to Die.

“So. . . you _want_ me to die?”

“That’s correct Mr. Anderson.”

“No, no I don’t think you understand how _batshit_ you sound. Let me rephrase that. You, Cyberlife, want me to physically, irreversibly, actually fucking _croak_ on the lab table, for absolute certain, caput, life-o gone-o?”

“That’s. . . Still all correct Mr. Anderson.”

“And because I’m about to die anyway, I’m the perfect candidate for this, what was it called. . . ‘Para-Mortem Kinetic Synapse Transposition and Transfer to Symbiotic Host’?”

“We shorten it to KSTT, but yes again.”

“And since you can’t legally murder people to try this brain-swap shit, you are asking terminally-ill-old-me to be your guinea pig since you have to practically cease brain function completely for it to work?”

“You and the other candidates are all facing the same immediate threat of expiring, yes.”

“And all you want me to do is keel over, you, you transfer my soul to some half-human half-android _goblin_ , and if it works I wake up a cyborg, which makes you people fuckin’ Gandalf-Jesus-Christ basically?”

“Again, that’s a really crude version of what we’re attempting, but essentially, yes. Despite advances in organ printing and replacement, there still aren’t viable therapies available for someone with such late stage systemic organ failure like yourself. But our work in transferring synaptic and hepatic brain activity to an empty hybrid host shows real promise in allowing humans to gain the same lifespan that android life forms possess, terminally ill included. Now that androids are guaranteed to live systemically farther, human longevity is the next great scientific frontier. If successful, you’d essentially be yourself, but. . . Younger, stronger, more durable like you wouldn’t believe. Not quite the same as a fully traditional android, but the improvement is astronomical. Your consciousness would be fundamentally embedded into a whole world’s worth of information and knowledge, and you’d only require the regular maintinence that comes with the typical android life to sustain it.”

“Which is. . . How long?”

“Well, with regular software updates and proper maintenance. . . Around 150 years?”

He shakes his head at the tech in the lab coat, and scoffs in their general direction. The nerve of these quacks. One hundred and fifty years.

It’s almost like playing God.

. . .

Fuck, it, nobody talks to God anymore; they just make man on their own.

He signs on the dotted line.

He’s only about five percent sure he believes they can pull it off, anyway, but there’s more painkillers here than at home. At least he’s going out in style.

And higher than a kite in heaven.

//

They practically sprint around their laboratory trying to get things ready before he prematurely dies in front of them. He’s hacking up bucket after bucket of pink and red onto their pristine white towels every day and Hank knows the journey is coming to an end one way or another.

He sits in their state-of-the-art wheelchair while they hand him an endless ocean of paperwork.

_‘Contractually agreed-upon scheduled maintinence every two to four weeks.’_

_‘Agreement to stay within thirty square-miles of Detroit metropolitan area.’_

_‘The subject understands the nature of privacy will be fundamentally different than the singular human existence as access to the Cyberlife network mainframe cannot ensure the host can or will maintain a private connection.’_

_‘Any breach or violation of this agreement will result in the immediate termination of the host project and revocation of Cyberllfe facilities and maintinence access.’_

“So what, if I go rogue and miss an appointment you’re going to throw my ass out and make sure I start falling apart at the seams?”

Hanks coughs his way violently through the sentence. His hand is busy writing the shakiest signature on lines one through five-hundred that he can possibly do.

“A violation of our trial parameters will revoke all funding and support towards upkeep, cerebral and non-cerebral. It’s imperative that we receive regular checkups and testing with your kinetic mainframe. We can’t bar you from obtaining Cyberlife services Mr. Anderson, the Android Independence and Humanity Act prevents us from witholding care and you’d be included in those parameters. It’ll just be your onus to provide the monetary means to do so.”

“Christ, that’s just an obligatory ‘fuck you’ on paper instead of with words.”

“If you have any qualms about proceeding with this rather complex trial Mr. Anderson, I encourage you to reconsider. The entirety of this operation is predicated on your ability to proceed in a fashion that can provide real, qualitative data.”

Hank leans back in his chair, tired, exhausted, done for the day.

“Like I said, I’m dead either way.”

//

He was right, the drugs are fantastic.

He can barely feel a thing when he coughs up a blood clot the size of his hand.

They might just run out of morphine by the time he’s done with them.

A little inside joke, between him and no one.

//

“What’s this?”

Hank’s rudely roused from a dream where he’s running through the park with Sumo. Young again. Lithe. He feels the biting Detroit air billowing in his lungs and he feels more alive than he has in a lifetime. Cole’s in the corner under a big oak tree, drawing something with crayon. They’re laughing while he flies down the cobblestone road. Connor catches him at the end of the trail, taking him into his arms, for some reason taller than he is. He looks down at him like he’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and brushes the soft pad of his thumb by the corner of his eye. The wind soars back through him as Connor leans down. He felt like he was almost flying.

But it’s just a dream.

An orderly kid in a lab coat helps him upright and he picks at some crust built up in the corner of his eye while a needle digs into his arm at the elbow. Hank’s handed a tablet and a display kicks on the wall opposite of him. A series of screens that look like an RPG tutorial spring up around him and he looks to the kid, confused.

“Sorry to wake you up so suddenly, but we’ve got to get started on the chassis production and synth-skin mesh. At the very least we’ll have to issue you a fairly standard width and height with the shell and all, but beyond that, you can pick whatever cosmetic changes you want for yourself.”

Hank throws on some reading glasses and works his way past the root menu. Hair, skin, eyes, shoe size, freckles or moles. How thick does he want his eyebrows? Does he want to be able to dance ballet or tackle like a linebacker? Sliders and pre-oriented options fly past him and Hank feels completely overwhelmed.

He’s always been a sad old fuck, and when you spend your life a sad old fuck, it’s either a beloved cornerstone of your identity, or you commit suicide at age 30.

Well, he’s tried both.

So the idea of the kind of freedom the kid is offering is both daunting and invigorating as the reality of the situation sinks in.

Shit. Hank Anderson has an expiration date. Not just the fleshy parts, but now it can be the whole identity as well. It’s his entire being that’s going to be gone, down to every last wrinkle and mole. They’re telling him that when he wakes up, IF he wakes up, he can be a whole new man.

No past.

Only the present, and 150 years of brand new, shiny future.

“So. . . All of this is just, what, up to me? You boys don’t have any restrictions at all on this thing? I could wake up tomorrow calling myself Darlene from Shreveport, Idaho and just lie to everyone I’ve ever known and they’d never be any the wiser?”

“It’s tempting, such freedom, isn’t it? It’s the procedure alone we’re trying to measure, the quality and ability of the transfer. How your conscious brain carries on after is really the heart of this whole operation. We’re in uncharted waters, Mr. Anderson. So long as some standard body shapes and cosmetic choices are employed. . . You get to be whoever you want. Of course, you could  
choose a similar avatar. Middle-age presenting, the grey hair, stockier build. Keep the same name and find your old life still there, waiting. Of course, everyone would have to believe you, what with you essentially coming back from the dead, but nothing is stopping you from being anything but the man you’ve always been.”

Hank grunts out an unsure reply and thumbs at the pad again. Choices. So many choices, how in the world do they want him to know what he should go for? He thought they were talking a raw deal, same eyes, same stupid, meathead face. Barely clearing ‘ugly’ and not even approaching ‘conventionally attractive.’

Christ, they could make him a movie star. A female movie star. With uh. . . Generous proportions.

“I don’t know about this, kid. I just. . . It’s a lot.”

He gives Hank a somewhat awkward pat on the arm in what is supposed to be a reassuring gesture. He offers to take the tablet from him, and Hank lays back, staring at the ceiling lights above him. A million things are swimming in his head, and between the drugs and the exhaustion there’s not much sense made of them.

“Your procedure isn’t officially scheduled for another four days. I think we can crunch on production and give it another twenty-four hours. Just. . . Take some time and then let us know. We can build the skeletal structure in no time at all, I’ll let production know.”

The tech glides out of the room and Hank is left on his own. He spends nearly four hours without making a sound, tablet untouched on the bed side table, head reeling. So many thoughts are garbled in his mind, but through the maelstrom of it all, he realizes something small, and something sad.

He’s never been given the option to love himself before.

He doesn’t even know where to begin.

//

“I mean, I just don’t really know where to start, and I know you don’t know me and fuck if I have any clue what’s aesthetically pleasing, so—“

“Mr. Anderson, you really don’t have to apologize, it’s no trouble at all. You calling me if you need me is what I’m here for.”

“Thanks kid, I appreciate you coming back in to help.”

“Call me Anthony, Mr. Anderson.”

“Hank. Might as well use I while I got it.”

“Hank, then. Give me twenty minutes and let’s get started.”

//

“Jesus Christ this is gonna take forever. We’ve been at it for two hours and all we’ve got is ‘still white’ and ‘still dick and balls.’”

“I know it’s a lot to think about, I really do. . . How about this, I suppose. . . is there anything about yourself that you specifically DON’T wish to change?”

“Oh, so you’re a comedian, huh?”

“Come on, Hank. Surely there’s _something_ about yourself that you really don’t mind. It might be, well, grounding, to be honest. To be able to look in the mirror when you wake up and still see that something you remember is there. Might help.”

He thinks long and hard, and only one thing really comes to mind.

“. . .My hair. . . I dunno, I always thought the greyish hair thing was cool. Lotta video game characters had the silver growing up, so I uh, always thought it looked badass. Is that weird?”

“Not weird at all.”

Anthony highlights the option on the wall. Silver hair, chin length, shiny and new. Hank receives a genuine smile as he turns back to him.

“One option down, a hundred to go.”

//

“Eyes?”

“Don’t really care.”

“Hmm, I’ll pick the steel blue then, it’ll be striking with the silver-grey color. Height?”

“Let’s go 5’11.” And make me _fast_. I was never fuckin’ fast, I wanna be able to sprint like a goddamn superhero.”

“I’ll make a note for the assembly to include some superpowers. Voice?”

“Keep it low, more intimidating when you’re yelling that way.”

“All right, grizzled chain-smoking cop voice, check. . . Options for. . . Oh, well I think I’ll step out for a short break here and let you do the section for genitalia options on your own.”

“Why, afraid I’ll make my robot dick bigger than yours?”

“Just remember I can change the settings while you’re asleep.”

. . .

“Yeah, yeah, fifteen minutes and you’re back, I hear ya.”

//

“And after all of this, you think you still want to be a cop?”

“Hell kid, what else do I know otherwise?”

”You’ll know a lot more whenever you wake up.”

”. . .You know, the androids you guys have churned out before have basically changed the game in solving violent crimes. Seriously. It’s like a whole new world, even with just the beat cops who are all ‘droids that came from some other purpose before. My. . . My . . . My partn—. . . I’ve seen a lot of good come out of androids working those scenes. I know you’re not putting some complex detective crap in me, but. . . The strength, the stamina, the fuckin’ filling cabinet of every crime detail available in my head? I think I could do some good. More good than I’ve done before. More than the past twenty years. I tried a little, before all of this went down, but I could have done fucking more.”

“Hank, I’m sure you were a great detective.”

“No. Good. I was a _good_ detective. Someone else was the great one, and it wasn’t me. I think. . . If all this works. . . I’ve got a lot of making things up to him to do.”

//

“Looks like that’s about all. . . Oh, we still haven’t filled out the name.”

“The name? The hell you talking about ‘the name?’ Isn’t it just going to be ‘Hank’ again?”

“By all means, you’re well within your rights to change how you’re addressed. If you plan on attempting to enmesh into your old life and identity, I would suggest that you keep that the same to avoid confusion. But like we said. . . Things could be a fresh start as well. You’re not obligated to tell anyone who you are, or where you came from. If you wish to simply state you’re an android, or even attempt to hide your synthetic status, it’s all up to you. You could walk out of here and never speak to anyone again for all we care. With this kind of tech, we realize there’d be thousands of different ways to approaching rebirth. Some people might go their own way, some may not. Whichever you choose will provide valuable data, and so that, at the very least, is predicated on your own decision.”

“Whoever I wanna be, huh? What if I tell you to give me these big beefcake anchor-arms and decide to go Hulk out and cold-cock every son-of-a-bitch who ever did me wrong? New Hank Anderson, puncher of assholes, vigilante extraordina—“

“ _Anything_ but that.”

“. . . You’re no fun at all.”

//

“Ok, ok, but what if I’m walking in the grocery, and out of the corner of my eye I see my Great Aunt Bertha, who sees the name-tag on the badge I’ve got on and then the old lady runs up to me sobbing, saying ‘Oh, dear, you remind me of dear little Hank, he expired not too long ago, just seeing the name brings back so many painful memories.’ And then the lady starts bawling in the middle of the fuckin’ thing, and I have to put my awkward robot-arms around her and be all, ‘but Aunt Bertha, it IS me, it’s your little Hank,’ and we’ve gotta make our life story into some Hallmark-card movie?”

. . .

“Do you even have a Great Aunt Bertha?”

“No, but now messed up would that be if it happened?”

//

“How about making a pros and cons list?”

“Do I look like the kind of man that’s ever made a fucking listicle to rationalize a decision in his entire life?”

“Point taken. . .”

//

“You’re looking tired, kid.”

“Just resting my eyes, is all.”

“You’ve been in here for eight goddamn hours, go home. I don’t know where this energy came from for all this, but it was fun while it lasted. You’ve got a job to do, it’s four in the morning. Take a nap and we’ll resume my annoying you tomorrow.”

“Nah, you’re not bad, old man. You don’t annoy me at all.”

“Well I guess I’ve got to try harder when you get back.”

“I guess so, Hank. I guess so.”

//

He can’t decide on the name situation, but Anthony tells him it’s okay. He squeezes Hank warmly on the shoulder before carting the data off to the production line, and Hank realizes he misses the little twerp when he’s gone.

The little bastard was witty and sly. Kind of reminded him of a few folks back at the DPD. One in particular, really.

He falls asleep while contemplating what reminds the other officers of him, or if they still remember him at all.

//

Anthony comes rushing in when Hank screams himself awake from a nightmare. He’s thrashing, he’s clutching the sheets so hard that his nails dig past the woven fibers and start to dig into his skin. The tech throws the lights on and orders a few CCs of something to calm him down.

Tears roll down his gaunt, ashen cheeks catching between the layers of dry skin there. It’s about ten minutes before his chest isn’t heaving, and the kid hasn’t let go of his hand since he came in.

“Jesus, I’m sorry. I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”

“It’s ok. It’s okay, Hank. What were you afraid of, huh?”

“I went back. Nobody remembered me when I went back. It was me, same fucking fat-ass in a Hawaiian shirt, and the whole place stared right through me. I walked back in the door and I’d told you not to change a thing. Sat at the same desk. But none of them remembered my name.”

“Hank—“

“He didn’t recognize me.”

“Who didn’t—“

“He didn’t recognize me, kid. How could he forget about me? Jesus Christ, kid. _Jesus_.”

“Hank, do I need to get somebody—“

“Promise me. Promise me you won’t forget what I look like. Who I am right now. Even when I wake up different, I want someone to remember. I want someone to be glad that they knew the first _me_.”

“. . . I. . . I promise, Hank. I promise I’m glad.”

“Thank you. Thank you, kid.”

//

He doesn’t sleep again after that before the end. Some restful ‘last slumber’ he got. But considering how many nights he’d spent wired with caffeine and junk food before, on stake-out after stake-out or filing DPD paperwork, the restless feeling in his legs and the bags on his eyes were almost a welcome, familiar salve against the tide of the encroaching unknown.

He didn’t think he’d be nervous, really, when the time came. Wheeling himself into the Cyberlife doors just five days prior, he didn’t think they’d be able to help him. By all means, he’d expected to waltz up and get the obligatory ‘sorry, you’re just screwed,’ and go back home to die sad and alone.

But here he was, lying on a fabricated plastic palette with about fifteen thousand wires going into his head and his arms, and here he’ll be until he takes his final breath.

Life’s weird like that.

Death, apparently, is even stranger.

The orderly had moved him from the soft cottony bed in the middle of the night. Apparently his resting oxygen levels and declining body temperature indicated that the final decline was near. They wanted to hook him up to everything and get him ready, just in case of something like sudden cardiac arrest.

It was especially bizarre when they kept him awake while inserting the cathodes and anodes into his head. Normally this would kill someone so weak, they told him, but since they weren’t needing him to recover from such an intense dose of propofol and tissue disruption, his body would simply. . .

Slip away. . .

All according to plan.

So he let them do their business, and in his final hours, Hank Anderson finds himself strapped down like a lunatic, talking shop with some random kid from Kalamazoo. A snarky little Cyberlife tech who seemed to care as much for him now as the person he would be in twenty-four hours.

If everything went according to plan, that is.

It remained to be seen.

“So. . . Kid. . . You never did tell me how many other folks you got running around doing the same trial that I am.”

“Oh, well, uh. You’d be the first successful transfer, actually.”

Hank pauses for a few pregnant moments before he chokes out a dry laugh, and a surgeon shushes him from the corner, reminding him he’s got a thousand wires plugged directly in his brain. Delicate proceedings from here on out. Hank rolls his eyes and the tech smiles back. He can barely raise his voice above a whisper.

“And here I thought you people knew what you were doing.”

“We do, hank.” The kid offers, and gives his hand a gentle squeeze. “We’ve gotten extremely close. The brain is a fickle thing. So is dying. We still don’t really know the true implications of being alive. Why are we here? Where do we go? _Do_ we go anywhere, or are we simply returned to the same blank neutrality that we were in before conception? It’s all relative, really, in terms of the science. Synapses fire, and retire, and telomeres chug on until one day, they’ve run out so much that you find yourself old, and wanting. And the body realizes that it can’t sustain itself anymore so whether it’s simply old age, or a mid-life illness, or some geriatric disease, you pass on. Some people, when they get to that stage, they’re. . . Resigned. Whether they know it or not, when death finally comes for them, they welcome it with open arms. I’m not a spiritual guy, really, but I think there’s something to be said for the strength of someone’s will. Their wanting to carry on.”

“Well shit-fucking-fire, Homer. Recite me the Odyssey why don’t you?”

“Shut up. All I’m saying, is. . . You’re the twentieth time we’ll have tried this kind of thing. I’ve seen twenty different people call that phone number, or stumble into our door, or be wheeled in here by some family member desperate for some Cyberlife money, but with every one of them, I think there’s been something. . . Missing. I don’t know how else to put it, but. . . I don’t think you really want to die. Those other nineteen people were all ready, in their own way. I don’t think you want to go.”

“Kid. . . If you’d seen how many times I got close to blowing my own brains out the past fifteen years, you’d know how ridiculous that sounds.”

Anthony flicks him lightly on the wrist, a loving little touch. An unfathomably intimate gesture.

“Well, you’re still here, aren’t you? If you’d really wanted to go. . . Not to be grossly morbid, but. . . In all those years, if you really wanted to die, we wouldn’t be talking right now, would we? Something has you holding on, Hank. You’re ready for a second chance. Might as well give things another go.”

Hank isn’t sure if he believes him.

But something within him hopes he’s right.

//

. . .

. . .

“. . . Hank, you still there?”

. . .

. . .

“Yeah. . . I’m here.”

“What are you thinking about over there?”

“I just thought. . . I was wishing that. . . That I wish my son wasn’t born ten years ago. Maybe he could have been saved. He wanted to live too.”

. . .

. . .

“Well, wherever he is, you should know he wants you to live too, Hank.”

“Yeah. . . I know. . .”

//

. . .

. . .

. . .

. . .

. . .

. . .

“Did you decide if you wanted to keep your name or not?”

. . .

. . .

. . .

Wheezing. Breath softer than a bare breeze. Words pass through chapped graying lips so surprisingly light for someone so close so close to the dark.

. . .

. . .

. . .

“. . . Tell you. . .Kiddo. . . When wake. . . Up.”

. . .

. . .

. . .

”Hank?”

. . .

. . .

. . .

“Ok, you tell me when I see you later, old man.”

//

“Time of death?”

“Time of death clocked at. . . Let’s call it 11:09am, Saturday October 23rd, 2040. . . How’re those waves reading?”

“Still something stirring the pot around in the limbic system, but it’s all dying down.”

“Right. . . Thanks Anthony, you’ve been nothing short of superb. I’ll definitely chat up Larsson about that senior position we’ve got open next month. Keep this up and you could be running the whole division. . .Let’s break for five and check those monitors again, looking at initiating transfer within twenty minutes, let’s say.”

“Hybrid chassis is on-line and waiting in thirium-bath stasis, secondary checks confirm synthetic systems as online and available. Bio-ware readings optimal. Just waiting for him to finish up.”

“Right. My condolences, Hank Anderson. Now let’s get you back.”


	3. Goldenrod.

The beeping from the heart monitor slows until it’s one short burst per minute, and finally, there’s no sound at all. The wet heaving in his lungs slags further, and further still, and the colors in his eyes pass into some grey rain curtain as all light and matter stretches thinner and thinner before him. It gets so small, just on the horizon, just on the edge of his vision, that he can barely see anything anymore. The walls of the room where he lay only moments before shrink and expand, shrink and expand, until he’s washed into a sea of soft grey that could fit in the palm of his hand, or the infinity of the universe, or both at the same time.

He’s not afraid. Far from it. But he’s not pleased, or happy, or comfortable, either.

He simply _is_ , and _between._

Like he’s watching a home movie he shot long ago, but forgot that the tape even existed, and now he was looking at the television screen wondering ‘well, where do you think this is gonna go?’

He realizes he’s standing in a slow moving water, barely halfway up to his knees, ebbing and bobbing in an invisible breeze.

He begins to follow the lazy strands of the river. Slow, steps wading through molasses. Thick syrup of blanket haze. It feels like there’s a destination, if only he continues just a little bit farther. He walks for hours, or days, he doesn’t know.

The further along, it seems, the stronger the water flows. The singular sense of direction becomes less and less clear, and the ebbing current is moving in a thousand directions all at once. A grey pinpoint of light that has become bigger as he walks stands resolute on the horizon, a penultimate thing, but the river has changed more and more the closer he goes. Something doesn’t quite want him to go that way, it feels. Something’s holding him back. He trudges on, fighting against the hundred little currents, and then stops walking altogether, feeling the thousand directions on his legs, not really knowing where to go.

Each subtle shift in the water feels like a choice.

He has no idea which way to give in; it’s all too much, at once.

He stands there for some undefined length of time until something catches the corner of his vision. It’s yellow, and gold, rushing and flickering in a towering row across the way, like an off-canter projector reel does at those old-timey cinemas. He raises his leg, slowly, gingerly stepping again and again until the river breaks just a bit, and he finds himself only a few feet away from the towering monoliths. The vague sun bursts that they are coalesce into smaller and smaller squares, and they slow down enough to form something like a crude movie. The individual frames glide by him, and then forward again, time proceeding, time rewinding, and in between, over and over. He looks on in awe while the scenes dance for him.

Wind, grass, clear blue sky, tall oak trees, golden leaves swirling in the air, a man at the end of a trail, a lone willow with a box of children’s crayons beneath it, the owner unseen.

It’s a park.

A park that can only exist in a dream.

He watches the scene a million times, a thousand times, a hundred-billion more. He reaches out to run a fingertip over one of the frames in particular, one where a man seems to be smiling. He runs that finger along the fine, cream ridges by his mouth, by his eyes. The deep furrowed lines on his face are almost occluded by his expression of sheer joy, wiped smooth by the unbridled happiness. The man in the movie stares unabashed love down the cobblestone way, to the tall one at the end of the road. The man in the river reaches out with his other hand, traces the lips of the man in the frame, and then reaches for his own.

The ridges seem. . . familiar.

It is him, he thinks.

And it is not, all the same.

His own face feels. . . Empty. Smooth. Unchiseled. A blank canvas. Vague valleys where features should lie in-between. He runs his hands over those undefined mounds, confused, at first, but then he believes he understands.

Rather, it is a choice. Something that has not yet come to pass. A possibility, it seems.

A potential smile. A promised joy.

He doesn’t have those features, yet.

But the implication is that he _could_.

The waves of the river slowly ebb against his calves again, far more gentle than before, beckoning. He turns back towards the liminal grey, and an unspeaking voice sings out from among the surf. The hazy horizon is calling to him, it seems.

Another choice. He listens to the words.

‘Wash yourself into the river. Follow where it flows. Become the current. There is rest in these waters. You can find peace in the way that you are. Let everything go.’

The panels behind him seem to shimmer in retort, and the man in the sunlight calls to him all on its own.

‘Dry yourself from this grey land. Bite back against the current. Carve the river yourself. Toil until you find this cobblestone road. The waves are strong; I know you are stronger. Take this brilliance for your own.’

But his legs are so tired, aren’t they? They’ve been standing in these waters for a thousand years, it seems. Wouldn’t it be easier to let go? How many days have passed without the solace of rest? How many decades has he fought against the river? The grey on the horizon fills him with solace; the goldenrod is so much, and so blinding.

His knees begin to buckle beneath him.

He is tired. He is tired, beyond all things. The sunlight is so brilliant, but he’s so tired of burning. The cool waters call out even louder.

He takes one step farther into the stream. Only one.

All at once, the feeling of a small hand radiates warmth into his palm, and tugs at him with fervor. The smell of autumn, and sunlight, and a crisp clear morning fills him to the brim until he can’t remember the taste of anything else on his tongue. He turns as quick as he can, chasing the warmth, chasing the urgency, the rays of sunshine in his hand. But there’s no one there when he whips around. The feeling is gone.

Instead, the scene in front of him is shining brighter than it ever has before, casting that same warmth upon him. He almost needs to look away.

The panel has changed to one he hasn’t seen before.

The man has finally reached the end of the road. He looks up at the tall man with all the brilliance of all the stars in the heavens. The smile in return is equally as blinding. A supernova. Cosmic. The golden leaves begin rustling ever louder, drowning out the ebb of the river. They sigh into his ear, ever so quiet, ever so small. He feels that tiny little warmth in his hand, again.

‘It’s okay, dad. It’s ok for you to go back. Promise. Go _home_.’

The small hand lifts his own up to the shimmering scene, and he presses down to his palm.

The panel dissolves at his touch. It burns him from the outside in. He’s swallowed by the light. He rushes forward. He lifts out of the river.

He goes home.


	4. Live, Die, Rinse, Repeat.

_You have 1 new message from HANK ANDERSON_

**Hey. I need you to come get the dog.**

_Hank??!??? It’s 3:47 in the goddamn morning. Who n the hell you think u are goin AWOL for 3 months n then adking me in the middle of the night to come babysit your DOG????? Uve had me worried fuckin SICK sayin u weren’t feeling good and then up n quitting. The HELL????????_

**No babysit. Need u to get him and take him to Con.**

_. . . Are u joking with me right now?_

**Nope.**

_I ain’t doin shit call him urself. Where the DUCK have you been??_

**Dying.**

_Hank, u told me u were quitting cause u were going for some treatment in som hospital. That isnt funny._

**Seriously. No time left.**

. . .

**Give Con the keys to the house. No coming back.**

_Hank, I’m not ur damn errand boy, grw a pair and do it urself_

. . .

_Hank_

. . .

_Hank?_

. . .

_Fuck u then_

. . . // . . . // . . . // . . . // . . . // . . . // . . . ‘You have reached 1-555-436-682273’

“Hey, it’s Hank. I’m dead, so don’t plan on me calling you back. Leave a message. Who the hell cares. Not like I’m gonna hear it.”

‘The mailbox you are trying to reach is full. Please hang up, and try your call again later. Thank you.’

. . .

“Fuck.”

//

There’s only one obituary in a local paper; the Detroit Gazette. A tiny little publication ran out of the west end, owned by an old man and his wife whose son Hank had saved from a Red Ice overdose about ten years prior. Right in the middle of a sting, he saw the kid frothing and foaming at the mouth on a filthy couch, in the dingy basement of the place they were raiding. His superior at the time screamed at him to ‘leave the little junkie,’ and ‘focus on the mission at hand,’ but Hank didn’t listen. He carried the boy up three flights of stairs, up and around the corner past West Grand and ran thirteen blocks to Henry Ford Memorial Hospital. The doctor in the ER told him that he got there just in time. A minute or two more, and the kid would have been gone.

They send him a cheesy Christmas card every year, signed:

To Hank Anderson,  
Who gave us the greatest gift we could ever receive,  
Love, Steven, Madeline, and Harrison.

The Arnold Family.

They live just down the road from Hank’s, in a ramshackle little rancher basically falling apart at the seams, but a family heirloom that they were too old, and too stubborn to part with. Sometimes Hank would go over to sip a glass of bourbon on the rickety porch with the old man, and revel in their adjunct cantankerousness, having the same tired argument over whether Metallica or Megadeth were the better band, and how video games were better back in the ‘good old days.’

One day, Mr. Arnold goes to take out the trash, and sees a strange looking man on the road, walking South with a dog on a leash in his hand.

“‘Scuse me, sir. That just happens to be Hank Andersons dog, so you should go put it back where it came from with all the other shit I assume you just stole from his house.”

The man stops in his tracks and turns, slowly, throwing a brimstone laden glare down from his towering height.

“ _Excuse_ me? You some kind of racist, profiling neighborhood vigilante?”

“No, I’m the neighbor who keeps an eye on Hank’s shit when he goes on a bender and doesn’t come home for a week straight. Not that he’s done that recently, but I still keep check on things and I haven’t seen him in a while.”

The look on the tall man’s face softens a fraction, and begins to slide into an uncomfortable expression.

“Oh, I guess you wouldn’t know.”

“Know what?”

The man sighs and rubs a hand over his bald head, stopping to dig extra thoroughly into his bloodshot eyes.

“Hank’s dead.”

Mr. Arnold stands there quiet, arm still, poised and raised with the garbage bag still in it.

“Saw him ‘bout three months ago. Looked a little more pissed off than usual, but not. . . Dying.”

“Yeah, that was around the last time for me too.”

Mr. Arnold sighs, and puts the bag on the ground, hands on his hips and shakes his head a bit while eyeing the man suspiciously.

“You his boyfriend or something?”

“HELL NO, you old _fuck_. I’m his. . . Just. . . Doing an errand. For a friend.”

“Wasn’t my understanding that he had many of those.”

Sumo whines a bit, and paws at the ground around the other man’s feet, begging him to lean down and give him a pat behind the ears. He sighs, again, and concedes, and Mr. Arrnold seems more at ease when he sees the dog rapturously licking, obviously pleased. Familiar.

“Yeah, well. . . Including myself, I’d usually count about two, maybe three of us with that designation on a GOOD day, and when I get back to the station. . . Might be even less after today. He kind of just. . . Vanished. Didn’t tell any of us what was actually going on. . . Shit, he told me he was sick, but it wasn’t serious. Went and quit the DPD cold turkey back in August, and. . And now he’s gone.”

“Yeah, that sounds like him. Never was any good at any of that.”

“Good at what?”

“Friends. Relationships. Communicating. Usually just self-sacrifices the ever-living hell out of himself and calls it a day. Surprised he made it this long, honestly.”

“. . .You’re right about that, buddy. You’re right about that.”

Fowler cracks one small, weary smile and waves the man goodbye. Mr. Arnold watches him shove the beast into his small coupe car, hair poofing out and flying into the breeze. A final nod, and he drives off towards downtown, St. Bernard in tow. Mr. Arnold stands there in the cool morning air just a few moments more, then hobbles back into his little disheveled home, and opens up a bottle of Black Lamb, distillers reserve, hour of day be damned. He pours it three fingers high, single block of ice, just the way he knew Hank liked it. He sets it on his desk-side table, opens up his personal computer, cracks his knuckles, and begins to type.

OBITUARIES:

Lieutenant Hank Ethan Anderson  
Born September 6th, 1985  
Died October 23rd, 2040

We regret to announce the passing of Lt. Hank Anderson, a fine Detroit beat-cop, then drug and homicide detective, who served in the city’s Metropolitan Police for over twenty years. Integrous, unrelenting, and selfless, he will remain a fine example for all; for when life’s arduous nature shows its sharpened teeth, we must all do as he did, and persist ever on, no matter the cost.

All in all, it takes a single draft to write.

He sends the short memoire to his editorial team, and leans back in his tattered, old desk-chair. He tips the whisky high, and clinks it on nothing in the air before him with a softly spoken ‘ _salud_ ,’ before downing it in a single go. He takes the remainder of the bottle, and pours it out on the lawn, next to the roses. He goes to wake his wife, and tell her they won’t need to worry about sending a card this year.

//

///:—  
///:—  
///:—

;REBOOT[INITIALIZE]//..

;STASIS[SUSPEND]//..

;COGNITIVERECON[INITIALIZE]//..

..9%//

..41%//

..86%//

;COGNITIVERECON[COMPLETE]//..  
—//ALLSYSTEMSOPERATIONAL  
—//SYSTEMSWITHINOPTIMALPARAMETERS

;WAKEUP[INITIALIZE]//..

//

_“H————“_

Static. Garbled static, visible against the black background like a heathered blanket.

_“M————————on, ——e —ou —————?”_

He can hear something, but it doesn’t sound quite right. He can tell that someone’s trying to communicate, but it’s like he’s got a pair of earmuffs wedged into the core of his brain. Some internal error message tells him his sensory input should be functioning at optimal range, ready to be audible.

“———, can you he—r m—?”

Better, but not quite. A vague pressure on his left, the voice mumbling a bit before he finally hears a little ‘whoops, there we go,’ clearly.

“Hey can you hear me?”

He parses the line just fine, and the words appear in his head like a light show, tangible in every sense he possesses. Sight, sound, energy crackling in front of him, a plasmodic screen of synesthesic resonance telling him a million things at once.

The simple meaning, it’s implication within the sentence spoken.

The definition of the individual words themselves.

Syntax, spelling, checked against an internal lexicon.

The lexicon opens further, deeper, rushes past him at a thousand bytes per second.

Origins of English, the English system of thought. Various modalities of speech, origins of dead languages, a scrolling montage of facts lighting up his brain like a waving billboard.

Every part of understanding, all at once.

He tries replying, but somehow it only echoes out in his brain. A little message in the corner tells him that he cannot communicate on the internal CyberNet line as a connection has not yet been established with the network, and to try again later.

‘Fuck, that’s not right.‘

Oh _shit_ , he can swear. That’s good. He’s glad they kept that.

He’s ‘ _glad_.’

Holy shit, he’s _glad_ about something. His neurons, or parts, or whatever the hell you call if now are _firing_ , and he’s _alive_.

Those absolute fucking madmen.

He feels a giddy fire rise up within him, and suddenly he can feel his limbs again, and every inch and ounce of sinew in between. God, it’s. . . It’s everything and somehow it’s still not enough.

He thinks that he’s smiling and the voices call out to him again.

“There, notable motor function, thirium oxygenation peaking, smiling. . . Christ, we finally did it.”

They fling a million inquiries his way at once, about ten men talking at the same time, excited. Rapturous. They just made history. He sits up on the plastic gurney beneath him, and stretches his muscles further, taking it in stride. The questions only increase the more he does. He has no trouble sorting through every one of them.

“I feel incredible. Amazing.”

“Pain? No. Did you guys even keep that kind of thing? Yeah? Well, Right now I feel like a million bucks.”

”Oh shit, I actually _do_ cost a million bucks now?”

“Internally? Kind of a mix between a hologram and my own thoughts from before. It’s more. . . Tangible. Like I can walk through my thoughts in my head if I really wanted to instead of just thinking them.”

”Oh shit, I _can_ walk through them?”

“Yes, everything. All of the senses. Way more sensitive than before. I’m aware of everything at the same time. But, I think I can focus on one thing way easier than before. Hell, if i tried hard enough I feel like I could turn my eyeballs off if I wanted to. I think?”

“Oh shit, I _can_ turn them off?!”

“It’s like I’ve got Wikipedia feeding into my head constantly. Is this what the androids have access to all the time. Us androids? _Ho-lee-shit_ , you guys are fucking missing out.”

“Oh yeah, I can still swear, you bet your ass.”

“Do I remember my name?. . .”

He stumbles for the first time, a feeling of strange unsurety washing over him. He tastes the sentence on his tongue, that unceasing internal wave of information telling him a thousand little things about the question. A query that he didn’t order pops up in front of him in the corner of his vision. Kind of like some old school video game power up, sitting there at the edge of his periphery. It’s waiting there, waiting to be handled, waiting to be picked up. He thinks that if he accesses it, it’ll open in his head, telling him the answer to the question. ‘What is your name?’

The doctors wait around him while he noticeably struggles, giving him time. They don’t see the mulling he’s doing internally. A minute passes, and his consciousness reaches out, and the query unfolds.

//;IDENTIFICATION[QUERY]

—Hank Ethan Anderson, born July 1st, 1985. Date of death???.

He holds it figuratively within himself, and cups it in his palms. ‘Date of death???’

Those three little question marks resonate within him. The name feels both distant and familiar. A crossroads.

This is him. He is Hank Anderson, and he was born on July 1st, 1985, in a little suburban outlet of Metropolitan Detroit, an only child to Dennis and Clarissa. This is who he is.

This is the man he _was_. . . Is it also the person he’s going become again?

It seems infinitely odd that there’s a ‘date of death’ in the first place. God, he feels so. . . Alive. Reborn. Made anew from his former shell. The ghost of his former self twitches within him, and he sees that man inside his minds eye. Horrendously pattered shirt. Brown jacket. Tired eyes. Laughing, telling him the situation is fucking ridiculous, and unbelievable, really. Look at him now. Could anyone have ever guessed.

He asks the man within him what he thinks.

Should those three little question marks be replaced by a date? Do they need filling in? Maybe simply erased, replaced by an open ended dash or two, living and ongoing.

He asks the ghost inside of him:

‘Is Hank Anderson dead?’

It throws back its head, laughs as loud as it can, and begins to fade. He starts to come back to the external surface, breaks through that internal place, and is back under the flickering lights of the operating room while a final adage reverberates inside of his head.

’Why don’t you tell me yourself?’

He blinks rapidly, and throws his legs over the side of the gurney, wanting to stand. A few of the doctors gasp, asking each other if he’s supposed to be able to do that yet, and some of them stare with a voracious, ecstatic gleam in their eyes. He scans all around them, until he sees one far less enigmatic expression peering at him through the throng, in the back of the room.

Kalamazoo. Snarky-tech.

Anthony.

He’s smiling at him from the corner, arms crossed in front, nonchalant against the white plaster wall. The doctor to his right asks him His name again as he makes eye contact with the kid, and drinks the sight in. His vision hones in on individual hairs, on pores, across the face and nose, and then back to the eyes. He can see past the retina, to the cornea, the light illluminating every vermillion fraction of the iris. It’s like seeing the eyes of God.

They ask him his name a third time, and he offers it in return.

He gives his friend in the corner a nonchalant wave.

’See, didn’t I tell you that you’d know my name when I woke up?’

The kid smiles back, and mouths two words from thirty-something feet away.

’Happy birthday.’


	5. I'm Not Okay (I Promise).

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Connor registers the opening of the precinct door.

A little catch, the rush of air as it pulls from within, the shrieking yowl that always comes from the squalling hinge on the third door down, the loudest joint next to that little crack the crazy man with a machete had put in the door two Halloweens ago.

Connor sighs, and glances at the timetable in the corner of his terminal.

_//9:52am, December 10th, 2040//_

He clicks on the menu, and stares at the day of the week.

Nada.

Nothing planned, no leads to track down, no perps to interrogate as scheduled. It's a clean slate.

_Empty._

Of course, there could have been a notice waiting for him, denoting some early Christmas festivity that he's sure that Gavin and Nines are scheming together, but whether or not there was a notice, or an email, or a halfway invitation screamed at him from Reed from across the precinct floor, he isn't sure.

He thinks for a moment there could have been a random comment thrown out from the break room, intercepted from across the way, like 'if anyone shows up alone, or without mistletoe, or without a fuckin' Santa hat, they're not getting getting blasted, and they can keep their fuckin' paws out of the cookie jar.'

Or something along those lines.

But he hasn't been prone to responding to invites as of late, and so whether or not he got one, there's nothing written down.

As if the universe was planning to answer rectify the contemplation of his schedule, Connor suddenly hears the faint 'beep' of his inter-departmental mail chime before him. He throws the message open on the terminal, and quickly scans through the few short paragraphs.

**‘As a part of the ongoing efforts of the Detroit Police Department to support android-inclusive policies, we continue our mission to employ persons from all creeds, races, and backgrounds. Please note that today we welcome yet another member of the DPD family in our Homicide division. We ask you to graciously, and courteously welcome Det. Nathan Cole to the team, and ensure that his transition is as smooth and painless as possible.**

**Please note that any discriminatory, or racially insensitive remarks will be dealt with swiftly and promptly by DPD HR.**

**Captain Jeffery Fowler’**

Oh, so it was going to be THAT day, huh universe?

Scratch all of the internal idling about shit being empty. The dreaded moment had come.

Fowler had promised he was getting him a partner, one way or the other.

And it seemed to be the witching hour.

Connor feels a thready pulse begin to twitch at his brow, and peers over the lip of the console towards the reception desk. Someone's milling about, making light conversation with the model that works the front. Connor can't see much, just a crop of silvery locks, only a hair's breadth visible around the corner.

For the briefest of moments, the most unfathomably small portion of one singular cycle of thirium in his veins, he mistakes that outline for somebody else.

He rips the notion from his brain, and smothers it entirely, before anything, _anything_ at all regarding _that_ particular issue can root itself even further.

Save for a few of the android beat-cops that have joined the force over the past few years, nobody else but Connor is looking. All of them, with their sensitivity, could detect the soft, clicking wingtips, and the cheerful tone as it carried in from the desk the moment it arrived.

Pair that with the short, five minute notice that Fowler always graciously provides before any earth-shattering event at the DPD, and it didn't take much for the others to figure out who the man likely was, even if they weren't privy to the information beforehand.

Connor's head is throbbing, ebbing with a blanket of staticky chaff while the still anonymous voice carries a pleasant, upbeat tone down the aisles.

It’s a sweet, placating timbre. High tones, plenty of mid, a rich, underbellied growl within it that he assumes any normal person would find utterly charming.

So, what were the chances of a third panic attack almost coming along and barreling right through him on this particular morning?

The voice continues.

“Excuse me, I’m looking for Captain Fowler? He should be expecting me. Transferring into the precinct this afternoon.”

“Well, welcome then! I presume you’re the new detective?”

“You got it, sweetheart. Nathan Cole. _Pleasure_.”

Connor rolls his eyes internally. Add the namesake to the PTSD list.

A forearm rockets out from under a supple leather jacket to shake hands.

“I haven’t heard too many of us androids with surnames. Do you mind if I ask why you have yours?”

“Oh, I uh. . . Just liked it, I guess. Felt better to have one than not.”

His shoulders shrug up and down, and the receptionist offers a warm chuckle.

“Well then, pleasure’s all mine Detective Nathan 'With a Last Name' Cole. If you’ll wait here a moment, I’ll let him know you’ve arrived.”

“Appreciate it, hun.”

The silver streak leans forward onto the desktop further, and Connor loses the line of sight.

His hearing picks up the faint keyboard’s tapping, and the little ‘whoosh’ as the message flies off into cyberspace. Fowler gets the ping in the glass-box milliseconds after, and even Connor can hear the distressed groaning through the thick-paneled walls as he stands.

He comes forth from the great glass menagerie, and instead of heading directly over to the new recruit, he heads towards Connor. Not really a surprise.

There was a fair chance Fowler would feel obligated to ensure that there wasn't about to be another nuclear departmental meltdown between the partner and the new transfer. Things didn't go so well the last time the Captain tried to usher in a new android detective to the DPD. No doubt Fowler was assuming their shared heritage would ensure some higher baseline for acceptance into the fold.

Well.

He just had to go and find the world's only other android detective with features that were giving him a marked pain stabbing deep into his chest, didn't he?

Connor can't decide if its a cruel, cosmic joke, or if the whole thing is intentional.

Time would tell.

The brown loafers approach with the same determined lumber they always have, and the Captain sits on the corner of Connor's desk, swinging his head down low.

“I assume you read the email?"

"You'd be correct, Captain."

"We gonna have a problem here? Any problem at all?"

Maybe not externally. But on the inside?

“I have every intention to fully welcome the new Detective to the DPD with good humor, sir.”

“Attaboy, RK, attaboy.”

He pats him on the back like he's a little-league champ at a Summer meet-up.

Connor hates it when he calls him that.

Fowler claps him on the shoulder once more, trying to wipe off the sour expression that Connor just can't seem to shake, and he’s off again. The next stop is Detective Reed’s disheveled hovel, to no surprise again, and a quick 'yeah, yeah, play nice, I hear ya,' ensues. Connor tunes it out like he usually does, imploring his receptors to eliminate the noise from Reed’s general direction from his input. There wasn't any point paying attention to that part of the pit now that Nines was no longer a part of the DPD.

Instead, he turns back to his desk, deleting the email and putting the terminal to sleep. He closes his eyes, gently folding his hands in front of him, and accesses the CyberLife intranet mainframe. He enters his Jericho passcodes, and pulls up their production database in front of him, identification search taskbar. ‘United States-Android-Detroit-Detective-Registered-Cole, Nathan.’

Let's see just what black hole of Belle Isle they managed to pull him from.

Huh.

Nothing.

Connor's processors whir hot in his head, confused, and the blank query strikes him as odd. Most androids had a fairly comprehensive page in the country-wide lexicon with basic demographic information, at the very least. Model number, cycle of production, city of origin, city of operation, date of declared conscious independence. But there just wasn't anything there. Statistically, he supposedly could be some kind of RK like he was, but just how many of those could they shove into a single police department? He must be some kind of other, specialized model. Maybe a private owner, or specialized order, from before.

He starts tapping his fingers on the glass in annoyance. His version of a bad human habit.

He still doesn’t know how the motion managed to worm its way into his subconscious, and he can’t seem to delete it away.

Trust him.

He's tried.

As the months pass, he finds more and more of them. Little quirks like tacky bugs in his system, stuck to him like glue. Some new, persistent neurosis every few weeks.

A few of them seem vaguely familiar to things that a certain someone used to do.

Like how he twirls a pen around between his fingertips, playing some unmelodic cadence from one of the death metal songs he's always got stuck in his head, instead of flipping his coin, like he used to.

And how he, for some reason, feels compelled to drive himself to work, careening down the road in an atrociously handling Ford Behemoth, dodging cars and a thousand little coffee stains that are inexorable from the crumbling upholstery.

He doesn't even like driving.

But he does it nonetheless.

And why, would you ask?

Give it one guess.

Somehow, Hank had gone and died, and the only thing he left him were the stupidest parts of him he could possibly imagine.

It always sounds like a shirt you would get from an amusement park.

What a raw deal.

But that's what Connor works with nowadays, isn't it? The lowest possible hand. A bunch of leftover parts from his former self, pre-October 2040, barely salvaged. Scraped together off the bloodstained, brown carpet floor of an abandoned home on Michigan Avenue, cobbled together again with kiddie glue and paperclips, or whatever else was lying around.

On the outside, he was the same friendly, maybe slightly more cantankerous, android that he was before.

Inside?

Don't ask. He tries not to look himself.

Instead, he makes himself carry on. He'd shoved that broken mess off that filthy carpet, walked out the front door, and didn't look back. He went back to the little apartment he rents out on 3rd Street West, and notified the landlord that he had a new pet.

At work, he pulls double duty. Eleven hours on, one hour interval to calibrate internally in the private charging-station upstairs, another nine again, three hour run home to feed the dog, right back into work. Rinse and repeat the following morning.

He'd had the best clearance rate in DPD history before Hank’s shitty departure, and he channeled all the inchoate rage, and confusion, and mourning he felt in every circuit into the only thing that seemed to make sense anymore.

The numbers on his clearance rate didn't fall a single time. He's made it work.

Of course, there had been just one, small incident, if you could even call it that.

Just a little involuntary reboot in the middle of jumping off of a fifteen story building to catch a perp on the brownstone catwalk opposite to him, back in November. And sure, he’d missed the landing and crashed horribly and terribly, mangling himself into some distorted pinwheel while barreling straight through the bedroom window of some poor uninvolved kindergartner, but what is one to do when trying to excise the duty of the law?

A little mid-flight reboot never hurt anyone.

The family, though, didn’t quite understand when he tried to explain that the situation was ‘quite normal,’ and threatened to sue the DPD for every penny it's ever earned if they didn’t impose some internal sanctions and started, quote, ‘controlling their fucking robot hounds.’

So that’s how Connor ended up grounded. Figuaratively, literally, every syllogism in between. He was stuck behind the desk, with Reed and Chen at homicide and narcotics helm, forbidden from leaving the precinct on calls unless he agreed to work normal office hours, like a normal person, and 'get himself a goddamn hobby for once in his life.'

It meant Gavin was the star, busting down doors and bringing perps in for the walk of shame while Connor just sat in his little corner, clenching his fists until the metal creaked so loud that the whole station turned to look at him.

He’d spent the past month straight, day in and out, following protocol, as instructed. He’d thought that such obedience would have been rewarded. But instead, last week, Fowler pulled him into the glass prison, and what did he do?

“You’re getting a partner, son.”

“. . . Excuse me?”

“Don’t sass me you damn robot, you heard what I said. You’re getting a partner, because we can’t have you shorting your circuits every time you have the MacBook version of a panic attack.”

“Captain, with all due respect, it was _one_ ti—“

“No, it was one time where things really got FUCKED due to your determination to make yourself obsolete by Christmas. I’ve got at least four other reports from other officers saying you’re displaying heightened levels of aggression. Dents in your desk, perps with literally half of their teeth missing when you wrangle them in. Apparently you’ve got a mouth on you now because you’ve gone and told half of the first floor to basically fuck off at one point or another. And I know you're protective of your brother, but you’ve really got to stop threatening to castrate Reed when he comes near you.”

“He has an unfortunate way of lacking any form of decorum, and someone’s got to give it back to him now that Hank's go--.”

Fowler’s arm shoots down like a eight-ton limb of bricks.

“That person is NOT you, Connor. NOT you. I’ve got internal affairs, and a whole government-mandated board of people preventing us from getting our asses sued off for android-related reasons already. And everyone in here bullshits, don't act like you can't take it. Besides, he's been better since June. At least that's what you told me a month ago. And I thought you see him after work on the regular?"

"He's moved on from the generic hedonism and adopted a more wholesome annoyance when I occasionally see him, yes."

“Well, your ass is gonna move on, too. That crystal?”

Connor’s fists are as clenched as Fowler’s where they’re tucked behind his back, but he knows that any lip will decimate his already slim rapport. Who knows what Fowler would do to him if he knew how ready to crack he really was. He'll go crazy if he has to sit through one more 'movie night with my two favorite androids in the whole entire universe' attempts at cheering him up when he ends up at Nines and Gavin's place.

Connor shudders involuntarily.

“It’s 'crystal.’”

“Good. And back to this partner business. . .”

Fowler sighs deeply, and rocks back in his chair, rubbing a hand across the length of his face. It ends on his chin, and stays there as Connor watches him decide what to say next. No doubt choosing his words with extreme prejudice.

It takes another half-minute before the Captain begins again, and he does so with noticeable caution, and a softer tone.

“I know you told me, _explicitly_ , that you wanted to work alone now after. . . you know. . . But there’s no way around this. I've had two immensely important Detectives leave vacancies in this precinct this year, and the order comes from over my head. I have a lot of respect for your work ethic, son, you do a _damn_ fine job, here. I don’t want to compromise that for anything. But the fact of the matter is that I have to hire someone to fill the void that got left behind back in August. I'm not telling you that you've got to fill that on the inside. Not even approach it with a ten-foot pole, but publicly? I’ve got to be able to put a sign up next to the damn thing that it might be fixed, eventually. You’re doing I the work for, hell, five people all on your own, and it’s going to kill you. I know things were a little touch and go there for a while, and we talked about that. Those thoughts you were having.”

What did he know?

"Have you had any more episodes since--"

“No, captain. I’m doing better.”

He internally catalogues that lying here may have consequences in the future. He continues on with it, anyway.

To hell with the future.

To hell with implications.

To hell with it all.

“Good, that’s. . . I’m really glad to hear. How's the mutt?”

“Sumo is. . . good."

That’s a lie, too. He can barely look at the dog most of the time when he walks through the door. He doesn't take him to the park nearly as much as he should, even with all the extra time. Cuts the ear rubs just a little too short because sometimes he'll catch a glimpse of the handwritten tag he's got laminated on his collar, in that jagged, horrible handwriting. That poor goddamn dog.

“Everybody needs a hobby, son. Doesn’t matter if you’re made of metal or flesh. . . I'm just trying to look out for you, Connor. And that’s what I’m doing here with the partner situation; looking out for you. He'll be here next week. I promise that you two will get along."

"Captain, I really don't know about any of--"

"RK, you gotta trust me."

". . . I understand. Thank you for the heads up."

“If I didn’t like you so much, you wouldn’t be getting one at all. I'd throw you to the wolves with the rest of the five-minute warning crowd."

So Connor spent the past week attempting to drown himself in case files, while the looming trepidation of the inevitable encounter ate away at his mood. When he finally heard that syrupy voice cascading from the reception desk, he knew it was time.

There was only one, small catch, that he truly didn't expect.

_Fowler didn’t tell him it would be another android._

He has no idea if that makes things far better, or far worse.

He’s still contemplating his stance on the matter when he sees Fowler finally make his way around to the front, and stand in front of the Detective. The Captain clasps him firmly on the shoulder. It strikes Connor as an unexpectedly warm gesture. Maybe he's had an old colleague request the transfer as a favor, or maybe he wanted to try an ass-kissing approach to new recruits this time around.

Who the hell knows.

Another second more and they’re up and around the corner, Fowler leading him into the fold.

Connor gets an entire look at the man, for the first time.

He was just a few inches shorter than he is.

A supple brown jacket is thrown nonchalant over his shoulder, and a comfortable looking three-quarter sweater lays underneath. His posture suggests confidence, and he has that sure-footed gait like many androids do. A firm-lined jaw that strikes both as masculine and soft all the same runs down to a chaste neckline where the cream color of his shirt compliments fair, tanned skin.

And the face.

Whoever had made him put countless, minute details there. A nose that was humanly crooked, and charmingly off-center. Ghosted freckles that barely kissed high, angular cheekbones. Laugh lines that reached far and beyond to the supple corners of his smiling mouth, to a high brow where a gleaming LED was bursting a brilliant blue. Phantasmically grey eyes that held the kind of soulful glow you find in the greeting of an old, beloved friend. A warm, open, trusting set of features that made passers-by turn in their chairs, wondering 'who could possibly look so happy to be coming to work at a place like this?'

It's not at all what he expected. A thought echoes in his head, and it grows even louder as the two tarry on between the rows.

_The person that made him must have really loved him._

Connor raises a tentative hand to his own cheeks, almost involuntarily. It's a compulsion. A subconscious gesture, really. He doesn't know why, but he runs an exploring fingertip across his own features.

Common, brown eyes, the most available hue among people and androids alike.

A curt, unassuming nose, and lightly appled cheeks that leave an insignificant impression.

A thin, neutral mouth, designed to not give his intentions away to suspects who might try and read him.

A middlingly pitched voice that made you comfortable, but could ensure his intellectual superiority if it wanted, guaranteeing that you think he's a step ahead of you when it counts the most.

Uses. Intention. Utility.

The person that made him had optimized him for purpose, Connor decides.

_He supposes that there wasn’t much room for love on such a predetermined space._

His forefingers are ghosting along the corner of his lips when he snaps to, realizes that the Captain and Detective have been standing there right in front of him for some time. He shakes his head lightly, and upturns his gaze, and the two androids catch each other head on for the first time.

When the android’s eyes just so happen to meet him, he’s not sure what he’s expecting.

But it isn’t the look that he receives.

There's the barest flicker, there. The most faint swirling of self-doubt, unassurance. An ephemeral, only millisecond-long dip in the charming exterior. A sudden bout of nervousness, perhaps? It could be a million things. Connor doesn't have time to dally on the thought, and stands to be at the very least, polite.

“Cole, this is Detective Connor. RK-800 model. Ace in the hole. You should see all the shit he's been up to these past few months, it'll blow your mind. You're in for a shit-load of work, new meat.”

The Detective gives the Captain a brief, sidelong glance, before extending his hand towards the other. Connor raises his own.

“Just Connor, please. Or Detective. I don’t go by any CyberLife identifications.”

Detective Cole stands there, imperceptibly hesitant yet again before joining hands with his new partner. Connor doesn't really mean to, but he meets it with a bit more strength than one would consider polite.

He's just in that kind of mood.

Detective Cole, for some reason, seems to find it utterly amusing, and begins to squeeze back with his own mechanical grip. Connor tightens in retaliation until they're caught in a bizarrely unnecessary vice together, and Fowler clears his throat impatiently while they play out the exchange. Connor’s face trends increasingly frigid, and the Detective’s cocky smile only beams brighter, saying ‘so that’s how it is, then? I see you, Detective. Game's on."

Was he being subjected to some practical joke that only he wasn't aware of?

Connor feels that same wave of nauseating static within him from before, and his grip lessens just a fraction.

“Well then, 'Just Connor,' you can call me Cole. Or Detective. Or Nathan. Hell, if you feel up to it you can try out ‘Nate’ for short, it’s what all of my friends and best enemies use.”

So that’s how it is, then?

“I think I’ll stick with Detective, for now.”

“Suit yourself.”

They finally pull away at precisely the same time. No ground given, no ground exhumed. They're one and one, game, set, match, tied in the ninth. Connor’s body feels vibrant with disdain. He feels overwhelmed, and wishes he could be anywhere, in the entire world, but here.

But where else does he have to go?

Captain Fowler sits Detective Cole down, and begins to establish his logins.

"Case files are uploaded digitally here, internal mail there. You're gonna need to set a password for evidence storage downstairs, at least 12 characters. Would you believe it or not, we had a guy once who went two goddamn decades with 'fuckingpassword' for it?"

"You don't say, Captain?"

"Yeah, so don't even think about fucking using it."

They laugh among themselves, already friendly.

He's going to fit in here so easy.

Connor excuses himself from his station, and clandestinely makes his way to the parking garage. He walks until he gets to the fourth sub-level, and forces the driver door of his paint chipped ford open, and steps lightly inside. The only glint of hope within the swirling chaos inside him is the realization that he decided to park in the corner, facing the wall this morning.

He throws his head back against the threadbare headrest, gripping the steering wheel until the impression of his hands is baked right in, permanent. His vision begins to swim. The echo of that perfect laugh resonates inside his head. His LED was blue, the whole time, Connor realizes.

Worse, Connor decides.

The fact that he's an android?

It made things worse.

He does the one thing he's been trying to avoid for the better part of the past two months.

He lets himself break down at the DPD, in the dirty garage corner of Basement Level 4, stuffed inside of a shitty little car, broken, and battered, just like he is. 


	6. A Friendly Hello to the Ghost of Little Old Me

A little less than two weeks after his transposition, Nate had managed to convince Anthony to finally let him out of Belle Isle. He decides that if he’s really going to make this Detective thing work a second time, there’s one person who has to be told who he really is. Of all the potential roadblocks, there’s one fellow who always possessed the ability to sniff out his bullshit, every single decade he’s known him, and he knows exactly the first place that he needs to go.

Hank, or Nate, rather, shows up to Fowler's front door at around 10:15, three days after Halloween, November 3rd. He rings the front doorbell, still covered with purple fake cobwebs since Fowler was one of those people who left their decorations up for a month after the holiday was long gone, and waited on baited breath while his new cyborg heart pumped a mile a minute.

His newfangled robot hearing can detect some vague swearing from deep beneath the home, and a plodding set of steps while they emphasize a snarling 'motherfuckers, I ran out of candy seventy-two hours ago, come on people.'

Fowler rips the door open, sticking his bloodshot eyes a fraction around the corner, pulse 147 beats per minute, or so his internal analytics show him. Anthony had coerced the guys in production to throw in a few extra investigative goodies to the chassis after he told him his intentions to continue the detective work (what a hell of a kid), and Nathan Cole was already having the time of his life just staring at people.

Little hairs standing up on the arms? Nervous. Scared. He's got 'em pegged before they even know it.

Horrendous morning breath that he can smell from 40 feet away? Bad choice to go on that bender on Wednesday night, buddy. Or maybe just see a doctor for Chrissakes.

Dilated pupils, blown wide to the edge of the iris? Horny. Horny as hell. Get a room.

The barrel of a Mossberg 500 stuck ten inches away from his nose?

Wait, what?

"I ain't doin' no more trick or treat you fuckin' freak, get the hell off of my front porch."

"Oh, I'm sorry, is couch surfing illegal in Detroit city limits now, Jeffie boy?"

You ever hear the unmistakable, intimidating snap of a double action shotgun pumped right in front of your face?

You don't really want to.

"Fucking weirdo, get out of here before I shoot that dumbass grin off your blinking face."

"Jesus, you really get cranky after 6:00pm don't you? Eliza forget to massage your bunions before bed or something?"

Fowler takes the two steps down to Nate, and places the thing right between his eyes. He can smell the acrid tang of unused gunpowder and oil inside of it, and thinks that maybe, possibly, deciding to show up raised from the dead randomly after dinner on a Tuesday, wasn't the brightest idea he's ever had.

_'Hey, I can fix your body, and I can fix your liver, but I can't fix stupid, man, that's a bad plan right there.'_

Damn little smart-ass Cyberlife Tech being right all the time.

"I am going to be incredibly cliche, and count to three, and if you don't turn around, and get the hell out of here by that time, I'll have a cleaner and a bodybag replace you where you're standing. One."

"You know, this is just like that one time we met back in high-school and we got chased out of that Wawa by crazy old man Wheeler with the one eye--"

"TWO."

"No, no, it's more like that one bust back in '33, the guy with the peg leg? Did you think that guy could move that fast? I didn't think he could sprint like a fucking cheetah, much less hold up that giant ass LMG with his bare--"

"THR--"

"IT'S ME, JEFFREY. It's me. It's. . . Hank."

He throws his hands innocently into the air in front of Fowler, his string of anecdotes clearly not demonstrating the situation plainly enough to the Captain and his fluffy blue night robe. The man looks like he's about to pop from the raging vein throbbing at his temple, and Nate can see the wave of incensed confusion wash over him.

"Who the hell put you up to this, huh? This is exactly the shit that I don't need, man. Was it Reed? Narcotics? This is. . . it's. . ."

"It's just me, buddy."

Fowler still looks incredibly unsure, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as the towering man obviously wrestles with the clear, and precise definition of 'everyone dies, and nobody's immortal, so how in the hell would this even make a good joke, it's so unbelievable.'

Well.

Surprise, motherfucker.

". . . is the dog okay?"

The fact that he's bothering to inquire about the big, slobbering mess tells Fowler that as much as he shouldn't, couldn't, hasn't got the willpower to deal with this steaming mess of bullshit that just showed up to his house, something is happening. Is it really happening? How the hell would it even be possible? It's barely been two weeks since they had a little memorial for him, at some cheap plot at the back of Detroit Memorial Gardens Cemetery. There was nothing to bury. The poor kid couldn't fucking take it, for chrissakes. He's getting tired of all of his detectives quitting, or dying, or almost throwing themselves off a fuckin' roof. They already did this. Hank was dead, and gone. Ten stages of grief and all that crap.

So what the hell?

". . . is the. . . Is Connor. . ."

". . . You're really serious, right now? No bullshit?"

"No bullshit. It's me. On the inside. Found myself a cute little boy-toy down on Belle Isle who had the ability to raise people from the dead. And they had morphine. Sweet, sweet baby Jesus Christ did they have some good drugs. Kicked the bucket, they jerry-rigged my ass into this thing, and so. . . well. . . here I am."

Fowler blinks rapidly a few different times, brain struggling with rectifying the different face, different body, different voice with the string of sarcastic shit coming out of the android in front of him when, and he did have to admit it. . . he did sound like his old friend.

"Tell me something that only Hank would really, genuinely know."  
  
Nate purses his lips, thinks about three seconds, and throws out the most embarrassing thing he can think of.

"I've been in love with my Android work partner for almost two years, and haven't had the sack to do anything about it. You send me emails every two weeks making fun of me when I tell you I’m not touching the situation with a ten foot pole. Last one the subject line was 'try not to wait until you’re in a nursing home to finally get some you pasty fuck.'"

Fowler groans heartily, and heaves the shotgun back onto his shoulder, raising his head towards the lamplight above them, staring at the moths swirling around the lightbulb in the dark. He taps his fingers noncommittally on the Mossberg a few times, before rubbing his left eye, and looking back towards Hank, or whoever the heck he is now, a single tear threatening to escape from that same bloodshot place.

Yeah, it was really him.

"So. . . I'm gonna need you to decide whether or not you're actually fucking dead or not here soon, because you're going to give me a goddamn aneurysm if I have to grieve for your decrepit ass one more time."

Nate snorts and rolls his eyes in the cool October air, and soon enough the two old friends are barreled over on their knees, heaving, gasping for air while they crack up completely.

"No, no seriously, I can't take it. You better have a damn good explanation."

"I do, I do, promise."

"Well. . . get your ass inside then and I'll throw on a pot."

Fowler makes it all the way inside to the kitchen, and scoops enough double-espresso for two cups each into the automatic drip before he realizes his faux pas.

"Sorry, can you even drink this kind of thing anymore?"

"Nah. Gotta deal with all those fancy thirium-based products that keep showing up in the grocery now. I think Connor and Nines had some bio-degrading processor in them but I got a more base model. No more late night greaseball n' cuppa Joe for me."

So far, the 'Hank Anderson turned Robot-God List of Bad Things About Not-Dying' only had one thing written down:

'No more Burger Zone :('

Otherwise?

"Besides that, I gotta say. Pretty sweet to NOT die horrifically of liver failure. Well, I mean, I did fucking croak from it technically, but the important consciousness part of things is still kicking, so that's all that counts."

Fowler takes a seat, clutching a double-wide mug of inky black beverage, and gives Nate a pointed, questioning look.

"You let those CyberLife weirdo's kill you after all?"

"Long story. Only reason why they did this in the first place is, apparently, it won't work unless you're already dying anyway. Called em' up that night I texted you to come get the dog, and they admitted me to their little Lazarus project right away."

"You aren't afraid that they put any weird, creepy shit in you without your permission?"

Nate laughs, and leans back in the chair.

"Oh, I'm 100% Grade-A Nightmare-Inducing Human-Cyborg now, buddy. As far as the internal shit? Feel pretty much the same as before. But I can do all that cool android crap that Connor does."

"You mean the weird-ass thing where he licks blood off the floor and IDs a dead body?"

"No, not that one actually. Facial recognition, heightened sense of smell, hearing, touch. . . I could tell you'd only slept about 45 minutes when you opened the door earlier based on your resting heart-rate and the time between each word when you spoke."

Nate shrugs his shoulders noncommittally, as if it was the most normal thing in the world to tell someone you came back to life chock full of superpowers.

". . . Well, shit."

"Shit's right, Jeff. God, if you could. . . everything's so different, this way. Makes it feel like I wasn't really living before now. Honestly. You know what I told them before they did this whole thing? That I still wanted to come back to the DPD. I thought they'd just give me a fucking internal filing cabinet or something, and hell, that sounded fancy enough to really get my ass in gear if I managed to live through the whole thing and get back to work. . . but it's so much more than that."

Nate rocks back down, and leans forward on the kitchen table, Fowler eyeing him expectantly.

"I want to come back."

"Ok. . . and how the hell do you expect to convince an precinct's worth of people that you're still Hank Anderson, a real boy, in there?"

"I don't."

Fowler stops, mid-sip, and sets the half-empty cup back on the edge of his corner.

"Should have told you earlier, but uh. . . Hank Anderson was officially declared dead on October 23rd, around eleven in the morning. I assume you had a little ceremony, or something or other, and well. . . it's a good thing you did. He’s going to stay that way."

Fowler doesn't say anything.

"They gave me a choice, you know. Didn't care if I wanted to waltz out of there and pretend to be someone else, or do the same overweight, cranky bastard song and dance all over again. All I've gotta do is let them take me in for diagnostics and updates every two or three weeks, for as long as they want, and otherwise?"

Nate shrugs.

"They told me I could be whoever I wanted to be."

"I dunno man, you still seem like the same old bastard to me."

"I am, I am basically. If it makes you more comfortable you can still call me Hank in private, but. . ."

Nate thinks for a minute, tapping his fingers along the wood, before he slowly outstretches his muscular forearm, LED blinking yellow for the first time since he'd showed up on Fowler's doorstep an hour before. His friend catches it mid air, and he introduces his new self for the very first time.

"Name's Nathan Cole, model KST-100, first off the line. I prefer ‘Nate.’ I can run about 26 miles an hour from a dead sprint. I like my thirium shaken, not stirred. My dick's about 6.9 inches long--"

"Oh, fuck off--"

". . .and I want to go to work. I want to be new, and bold, and anything but tired, and sad, for once in my miserable fucking life. . . I want be a better person, a better friend. . . And. . . I want to do something good, for once. I want to do good."

Fowler stills with his hand still conjoined. He looks at him plainly, rubbing his tongue along the front of his teeth while he thinks things over a moment or two. After sixty seconds, he pumps his fist again, and moves the other to clasp firmly over the android's.

His newest, and oldest friend.

"Well, we did have some old bastard go and kick the bucket here a few weeks ago, so the city commissioner has been down my throat to find another sorry sack of shit to fill the gaping hole he left behind."

"Thank you, Jeff. Thank you, I can't explain how much I--"

"You can turn in your resume and list of references to the front desk between the hours of 8:00 and 12:00pm if you wish to apply for this position--"

"Does my robot fist up your ass count as a reputable source of information--"

They end up talking until the sun rises above the skyline in the kitchen window. There's not an awkward moment between them. Fowler tries to call him 'Nate' one time, before he says that of all the weird-ass shit happening, he thinks that it'd be nice if they could still talk, just like the good old days, when it's the two of them alone.

Nate wholeheartedly agrees.

He sets him up in the spare bedroom on the ground floor, and Fowler goes to wake Eliza. Jeff tells her that they're going to have somebody staying with them a week or two, a new transfer from Chicago, who's going to be filling the open Detective position down at the station, and he'll be getting his own place here in a couple of days.'

Or at least, that's the story that they make up for Nate, because they make a pact between them that nobody else will know who he really is.

"What about the kid," Fowler asks, the wrench in the whole plan.

"He doesn't miss an old piece of shit cop, Jeff. I'm sure he's ok."

No he's not.

He's not sure of that at all.

But he's not about to be a selfish dick and force his one-sided horny old man wet dreams onto the person who he cares about, more than anyone else in the universe.

Didn't matter that Nate basically only bothered to go through with the whole thing because the thought of spending any moment in time, living, or dead, without that goofball's tiny, lopsided smile made him about to fall apart at the seams.

If he just got to see it every day. . . Maybe not directed towards him, maybe not the same as before, but. . .

If he just got to witness it one more time.

Everything would be worth it.

"I don't know, man. . . He's taking it pretty horrifically."

Nate feels stabbed, gutted. Ran through with a claymore and severed in two. A seed of guilt sets within him.

"I can't just show up back from the dead, Jeff. You? Hell, you're a grizzled old piece of shit, I knew you were just about the only person who could take it without going nuclear, but. . . he doesn't need Hank Anderson. He deserves second chance. A partner that can keep up with him for friggin' once. That's what I'm going to do."

"You think you can keep all that in you, every day? Lie to him? Act like you don't know any of the inside jokes at the PD, like you didn't just spend a whole two years rounding up every crooked sonufabitch you could find?"

"I'm going to have to. He did all the work, I was just. . ."

The LED is red. Just for a second. Just for a moment.

". . . I was just dead weight, in the water. Barely keeping my head above the surface. Sure, I lost thirty pounds and I was feeling good there for a little while, but. . . You know I was never right on the inside. I'm not that person anymore, Jeff. I don't want to be. I've had all those fucking demons inside of me. Ten years. You know, you were there for all of it. I'm trying to start over. I'm just. . . I'm trying."

Fowler isn't sure about the whole thing, but agrees to keep things on the down low if that's what his friend really thinks is best. It'll be weird hearing everyone shout 'Detective Cole' across the aisles at home base, he thinks, while he bobs and weaves in the morning traffic on the way downtown, and steps inside of his office, chair squealing as he sits down.

He pulls up the precinct intranet, and accesses the listing for 'DPD seeking homicide and domestic crimes detective, must have experience working closely with androids, and android related issues.' He sets the application timer to expire in a week, the amount of time that Nate says they need back at CyberLife to make sure that he's up and running to the point that they can let him run loose upon the world.

He tips back in the old, sagging chair, and looks out at the aisles below. He catches Reed trying to pretend like he's looking through a case file intently, but probably texting some dirty-ass shit to his equally as fucking gross android boyfriend. He makes a mental note to lecture Reed about 'the dangers of accidentally slipping a picture of his dick into a company-wide email,' for the third time, and rolls his eyes.

Chen's out in the throng of beaters, throwing her arms around wildly while she no doubt regales the new recruits with some crazy Red-Ice bust story, the five or six of them looking on intently. If Hank. . . Nate. . . hadn't have just showed up on his doorstep the night before, he was thinking of asking her if she wanted a promotion to work with Connor, instead.

Speaking of which. . .

Fowler turns slowly.

Connor is at his desk, typing away steadily at some investigative material at his terminal, back straight, unflinching. He types, and he types, and he types, and continues on like he's been doing for the past two weeks, completely unceasing. If anyone didn't know better, they'd have thought that he was the same old android that he was before the 23rd, just keeping up with the pristine work ethic he's known for precinct-wide. Almost as if he could hear him thinking out loud, Connor turns towards Fowler, and they make eye contact with a brief nod.

When Connor turns back away again, he catches the faintest bloom of deep, bruising blue forming under the corner of his eyes. He catches the little tapping motion Connor makes every minute or two, on the corner of the desk, a drum fill from some piece of shit metal band that the two of them somehow enjoyed so much. He sees the faint glint of a worn-out set of keys poking out of the jacket thrown over the back of the chair. He sees the slightly chipped mug, stained black on the inside, sitting resolutely to the right of a photo of Hank and Connor, the two of them smiling at each other.

What a fucking fool. What a goddamn fool.

He sighs and turns back to his own terminal, and picks a day on the calendar to tell the kid that the desk next to him won't be vacant for very long.

. . .

"You better know what you're doing, old friend. You better fucking know."


	7. Why'd You Have to Die and Make Things So Complicated?

Nathan Cole has absolutely no idea what he's doing.

Well, sort of.

Things with the station in general, honestly, were going far better than he ever could have hoped. All the officers seemed to find him ridiculously charming, and the rumor was the secretary pool had bets on which one of them made it into his pants first.

Apparently, the beat cops did as well.

. . .And narcotics.

Homicide was the only division without any takers so far, go figure.

Maybe it was the friendly, open smile that they'd decided to slap on him, that made the station more accepting to the new face than he ever would have expected.

Maybe it was the fact that he was still a cop for over twenty years on the inside, and knew how to track down the lowlifes, and the assholes, and the racist bastards across the city, impressing everyone immediately with a 'Wow, get a load of that guy. Hotshot new android Detective. Who would have thunk he'd be able to keep up with Connor?'

Or maybe that he knew every station joke, and awkward individual quirks of all the vet cops within it, that ensured that he knew they right thing to say. Knew the right punch-lines.

Maybe it was just the way his ass looked in jeans now. They outdid themselves on that one, he’ll admit.

Could have been anything, really.

But for all of the strides he was meeting, and exceeding, with every person in the Detroit Police Department (while he and Fowler cackled to themselves in the background, their little inside joke), the one person that he wanted to impress more than anything? The one guy whose opinion he genuinely cared for, whom he wanted to give back just a little bit of the fire that had been lit within himself for two whole years, that person?

”You’re 1.76 seconds late to clock in, Detective, tardiness is an unbecoming quality for a greenhorn such as yourself.”

And:

“Please do not touch the dial on the radio, Detective, I’m sure our taste in music has absolutely nothing in common, whatsoever, thank you.”

Or today’s wonderful comment of support and pride:

"I advise you spend some extra hours in firearms training, Detective. You were approximately 0.0447 seconds slow to draw when the suspect had raised his own weapon, and that kind of carelessness is going to get someone killed. Your margin of error is unacceptable. Try and do better."

"0.0447, huh? Tragedy, Connor. You're right, I'll just hand my badge back in now."

Yeah, it was going approximately THAT well.

He thinks about flipping him off when his back is turned.

It'll be a loving gesture. _Promise_.

Nate hadn't expected Connor to just go back to being his best friend. Hell, he was an entirely new person after all. And even if they decided that one day they wanted to be, that was a long fucking road to go down. It wouldn’t always be smooth sailing. He didn’t think he would get that kind of a free pass from the universe a second time, but it was like the android had specifically decided to never even give him an honest, fighting chance.

Had Connor barely looked in his general direction since their introduction two weeks ago?

Yes.

Had Connor handed him case file after case file, glaring down while he explains that 'the person who had that desk before you was one of the greatest Detectives this precinct has ever seen (wildly fucking untrue), and you have some very large shoes to fill if you expect to survive in this role?'

Yup.

Did Connor scrutinize his every move, more than happy to let him know when he wasn't performing at a level that even Clark fucking Kent would have had trouble keeping up with?

Uh-huh.

Did Connor hate his guts?

_It kind of looked that way._

Considering the past six months, he maybe (probably) deserved some of that _._

Nate sits there and runs his hands over his face, watching Connor's back after he quickly paces towards the evidence room, leaving him behind in the wake of his disdain after yet another comment indicating he was an unholy disappointment.

He sits back in his chair, rubbing his neck, and opens his internal messaging system, sending a note to Anthony to go ahead and pick him up for his bi-monthly routine checkup, because things had gone nuclear at the PD yet again and he might as well just head out early. He closes his eyes, and accesses the messaging mainframe.

**'S.O.S.'**

_'Bad day?'_

**'You know, just the usual end of shift 'fuck you.''**

_'Be there in 15 min.'_

**'Bring a fifth of whisky please.'**

_'U can't drink whisky, Nate.'_

**'Yeah, well, maybe I'll just stare at it wistfully, and caress it. Treat it like the spitfire comrade I seem to be missing in my new, short, robot life. Maybe it’ll pat me on the back and say ‘good job, coming back from the dead and you’re kicking this much ass already? I’m proud of you.’'**

_'U really have to get laid, dude.'_

Why did everyone keep telling him that?

**'Don't lecture your elders young man.'**

'( ° ͜ʖ͡°)╭∩╮'

Nate cracks up, and opens his eyes again, and sees that Connor has returned to his desk while he and Anthony were chatting internally. He glances over him, and catches the tight little pursing his mouth is doing, seeing that his thirium pump appears to be processing at a higher rate than normal, and the corners of his eyes are around a quarter millimeter more closed than was typical. The tapping at his desk registers 1.3 decibels louder as well. A bit more 'punchy' today. All telltale signs of annoyance, aggression. . . 

Not like they weren't what he expected Connor’s disposition to consist of when he was around, but. . .

Something had him in a particular mood this afternoon.

"Hey. . . what's up with you, today?"

"I don't understand your meaning, Detective Cole."

Always with the Cole business, would it kill him to at least try and use his first name?

"Yeah you do. You're over there simmering in a hot, steaming pot of 'I'm fucking pissed off and pretending like nobody else can see it, and I don't care who I burn while I boil.'"

"Eloquent."

Is it considered homicide if you chuck a stapler with the full brunt of your robot strength right at someone's forehead?

Jesus H. Christ.

"How long we gonna keep this up, huh?"

"Keep what up, Detective?"

Nate digs his fingers into his eyes, groaning.

"Oh, you know, this thing where you act like my general presence is the eleventh goddamn plague and you run around inconsolably irate all the time.”

Connor stills and looks around his terminal, and gives Nate one of his rare, right into the black pit of your soul, glares. He looks about as murderous as Nines used to on a regular basis, before Reed managed to chill him the fuck out. What a treat.

"My current emotional state is none of your business, Detective. Our success rate with cases is more than passable, and we have a working rapport that allows us to function on a congenial level while on duty. There's nothing else there to discuss."

He disappears around the corner again, and Nate bores a blank, disbelieving sitcom-style glare right into the monitor in front of him.

"You call the fact that you're ready to strangle me at any given moment a 'congenial level?'"

A frustrated grunt meets Nate’s ears.

Something audibly snaps across the chasm between them, and Connor slowly rises, rounding the corner. He steps lightly, coming to tower over Nate, placing his hands on either side of his chair. He leans down low, closer than he's ever bothered to get since they shook hands that one afternoon. His LED casts a hellacious red onto Nate’s face, and his own yellow blip mingles in, emphasizing the napalmed, nuclear, feeling between them today.

”Do you want to know why I feel this way towards our general situation, Detective?”

Well, not with this particularly intimidating look thrown in the mix, but. . .

”Sure.”

"Then I would like to make something clear. I did not _ASK_ for the Captain to fill your position. I did not _ASK_ for another partner, to try and make idle chatter with, and befriend, and develop a close, and personal relationship with--"

Nate winces.

"I did not _ASK_ for you, or your sarcasm, or your incessant need to try and establish an emotional bond, and pry into my personal life. Since I did not _ASK_ for any of these things, and they were instead thrust upon me in the middle of possibly the worst moments I have ever experienced in my few years of life--"

Roasted. Toasted. Burnt to a crisp.

"You'll forgive me if I find it _difficult_ to very readily accept you into the fold of my already chaotic life."

Connor steps back, and straightens his collar, and Nate sits there, shrinking into his chair. They stare at each other a moment longer, before Connor goes back to his desk, and flops down with an audible, weary sigh. He places his head between his hands, rubbing at his temples, plagued with a 'Detective Cole' sized headache, mumbling.

Nate taps his fingers together nervously, checking his internal clock and hoping that Anthony gets there soon to rescue him from the 'RK-800 fire and brimstone special.'

If Connor wasn't so clearly emotionally distraught, he would maybe have been touched by the underlying implication of what he'd just finished saying.

He essentially admitted that when Hank had gone, he had been so utterly affected that he felt like the void was irreparable. That he couldn't handle the thought of another partner because the one he already had was the only one he wanted. Irreplaceable. 

Old Hank Anderson was moved by the implication, somewhere inside of him. But what kind of good did that do them now? Some drama-ass bullshit. It wasn't that simple, was it? They weren't in a fucking Shakespeare novel.

And did you forget? He wasn’t Hank Anderson anymore.

They weren't going to run at each other, yelling sweet nothings while they embrace passionately under the waning light of a sunset, and confess their unbridled feelings about ‘you really do care,’ and all that sappy shit.

Hell, he could have just admitted he was in love with him before or something (yeah, right), and it wouldn’t have done any good. Because he wasn’t that person anymore, and those feelings didn’t belong to who he was here, today.

So, how did it make Detective Nathan Cole feel, right here, right now?

It just made him _sad._

Life's not a fairy tale, and there isn't some magical way of making the hurt disappear.

Hurt that he fucking caused. His fault. At the end of the day, all of those deprecating comments, the tension between them?

It's his doing.

He’s the one that left one morning, no explanation, no words between them, not even a shitty, half-assed lie for what was going on. He’s the one who left him alone. All those little glares he gets, they’re well fucking deserved.

He’s the one who left the ghost of Hank Anderson behind.

Karma, baby.

And he can see the dark blue bags under Connor's eyes, the way they bruise even deeper when he catches a glance of the photo Nate knows is on the bulletin board next to his terminal. He knows just how many hours he spends beyond the time he's supposed to work, typing away, refusing to go home until Fowler comes out of the office and reminds him that he's got to keep a normal, functioning schedule, so help him. He sees his old, shitty car, parked right up against the corner every morning, and knows that Connor spends fifteen minutes inside of it before he finds the willpower to take himself inside of the precinct every morning.

Selfish.

He feels selfish today, thinking about everything that's happened over the past half year.

A notice pops up in his vision, and Anthony tells him that he's up at the entrance, waiting.

Nate gathers his jacket in his arms, frowning at himself and all of his stupid, stupid decisions, and begins to turn to go. But he stops when he sees Connor still, sitting in that same, despondent position, face in his hands. He wants nothing, _nothing_ more in the whole entire world than to reach out, and just touch his shoulder. His hand. Give him a chest bursting, crushing, comforting hug, and tell him that he's still here.

But he can't.

Nate doesn’t have the right, anymore. He shouldn't feel compelled to further their friendship, or offer some fucked up form of solace, because honestly, based on the aftermath he's left behind, he probably doesn't deserve it. But here he was, in the middle of his choices, and when you make those decisions?

When you’re two people at once, at the same exact time?

There are always consequences.

When he'd gone to Fowler for advice a few days before, asking if he should quit trying so hard, stop being a selfish prick, he'd gotten a middling answer.

"Hank, you're a cyborg zombie who came back from the dead because not even God or Jesus could possibly keep you down, I'm out of my league giving any fucking advice on how to handle this whole thing."

"He hates me, I think."

Fowler sips at a glass of bourbon, and Nate grimaces into a blue cup of thirium while they talk in the glass box alone.

"Hates you in particular? Maybe. Possibly. I don't know. Kid's still real broken up about the whole situation. You disappeared for three months, and then he gets the worst possible news he can when my sorry ass goes and tells him that you've fucking croaked. Now someone shows back up again, tries to stand in between the memory he has of you, and the shitty fucking reality that you're gone and your desk is free real estate. . ."

They both down their glasses, sighing at the same time.

"I don't know why all you assholes all think I'm suddenly the station-wide relationship guru, but. . . My guess? He's still grieving. You can’t try and fix your old relationship, because to him, that’s up and gone. He needs time, Hank. To decide how he feels about Detective Cole. Stop trying to be two things at once. Just. . . give him some."

Fowler sets his glass tumbler on the edge of the desk, and pours another finger of amber liquid.

"Who knows? Maybe if you demonstrate your value, and you impress him with your new superhero abilities, you accidentally show off your 6.9 inch robot dick one afternoon and he gets a glimpse and just falls all over you, that could work."

Nate punches Fowler in the arm, intending to leave a bruise. He sloshes his drink onto his shirt.

"I already fucking told you, I ain't gonna do that shit, that's not the point."

"Goddamn it Hank that fucking _hurt_."

"Yeah well, quit bein' a dick. He never felt like that, I just liked to fantasize about it, before. He was my friend. Best fucking friend. Never said a thing to make me assume anything was happening otherwise. All the shit we did together was his need for a companion, not some whirlwind romance with a jerk. Me and my big fuckin' horny ass."

"Oh yeah," Fowler begins, dabbing at his shirt, "You up and die and the kid just about falls apart at the seams because you're gone. Big unbelievable fantasy."

Nate glares down, and taps the toe of his shoe to the ground. As much as he may have hoped for otherwise, Connor was, admittedly, struggling hard with the idea of Hank gone. On a level that he hadn’t expected. Who assumes that someone so amazing as Con was would be so broken up about a sad, old man? But he was, it seemed. 

"It's because he lost someone he cared about. Anybody would do that. I've been through the whole ordeal. . .Did you forget? I’ll admit it was a majorly dick move to just assume he wouldn’t give a shit. I didn’t give that nearly enough credit. That’s my fucking fault and I gotta deal with it. But he’s just broke up about his friend, Jeff. Doesn’t have to mean anything more than that."

Fowler sighs, and crosses his alcohol soaked arms across his chest, giving Nate a pointed look.

"Well then seeing as you're determined to be on my side of the fence now, just do what I did ten years ago."

"And what would that be?"

Fowler drops the bourbon soaked napkins into the trash, and folds his hands under his chin, staring intently above him.

”If you really want to do something nice, no bullshit, no ulterior motive other than having his best intentions in mind, helping him move through his grief. . .”

He sighs.

"Help him pick his ass up off the proverbial floor. Get him out of this goddamn precinct for five minutes, and away from that sad little mug, and that depressing fucking photo. Figure out what he likes, now, and do something fun. And just be there for him for a little while. Let him exist without any other expectation. Don’t know how you’d convince him to do it seeing as he already feels sour towards you, but. Be a friend, Hank. Just. . . be a friend."

Nate snaps back to the present.

He glances up, catching a glimpse of Anthony around the corner, who offers him a small little wave, tapping his wristwatch for them to get on and go where they need to. He turns to grab his badge and his pistol from the desk, while Fowler's words mingle around in his head.

_'Get him out of this goddamn precinct for five minutes, figure out what he likes, and do something fun.'_

Nate thinks to himself, trying to come up with some bright idea on what in the world he could ask that wouldn't immediately result in his android head being ripped off at the seams. How’s he even supposed to get him to meet up somewhere in the first place? While he shoves his badge into the pocket of his jeans, and holsters the pistol at his side, a convoluted, inspired, promising little idea pops into his head.

He remembers seeing a particular stack of CDs in the old shitty car, stuffed between the sagging console and the stick shift, ones that he knows he didn't buy. All some indie-head, psychedelic fusion crap band that he’d heard of before, but never would have listened to in a million years. It seemed that Connor genuinely, actually cared to find something new to listen to beyond the tired old disks he'd always kept stashed in the beater. Apparently the thousand times he'd played Knights of the Black Death for him in the car before meant he’d developed a liking for music on his own.

Would Hank Anderson brave a three hour set of anything that doesn’t resemble vague screaming and yelling for anyone?

Nope.

Would Nathan Cole?

Well, he’s going to try.

He looks up the band's name online, and it’s a scary, fatalistic feeling he gets. Wouldn’t you know, they're scheduled to play a show at the Majestic, tomorrow night, 7:00pm.

This.

This could work.

He quickly sends an internal memo to Fowler, making up some complete bullcrap, telling his friend that after he leaves, he needs to come out of the office and let Connor know that the Red-Ice distributor turned cold-blooded murderer they've been trying to track down is being rumored to appear tomorrow, at seven, at 4140 Woodward Avenue, anonymous tip. They're going to need the night off, and no, he can't ask any more questions about why.

He feels a bit bad, planning something slightly coercive, but no one else, not even Nines has apparently succeeded at pulling him away from the precinct for any unforced reason, so disguising it as work will just have to do.

Nate glances over at the glass box. Fowler's already got the message open, and quickly scans the thing, before swiveling in his chair, slowly. He comes about evenly, leveled, face blinking slowly, disgruntled, 'you fucking owe me in a way that I cannot properly express with the English language.'

‘THANK YOU,’ Nate mouths back to him, throwing up a little devil-horns gesture for good measure, and Fowler flips him off before turning away.  
  
And then he sees that Connor, still, hasn’t moved.

Nate feels like he should say something to him before he goes, because the last thing he wants to do is give him the impression that his presence at such an outing will soil one of the few things he still tries to do for himself. He clears his throat, trying to think of a sentiment that’s meaningful, and careful, to say.

". . . Hey, Connor?"

The android sighs, still yellow, head still perched upon his palms.

"What, Detective?"

"I'm sorry."

He looks up then, a bit confused, not expecting an apology from the other Detective, because it's his impression that Nathan doesn't think he's doing anything wrong. But Nate knows where he's coming from. He needs to start acting like it. He's trying to step into his shoes for five minutes, and admit that as much as amazing it would be to jump right into their old relationship again, Fowler is right about the big gaping hole he'd left behind.

And honestly?

The hole isn't getting filled again.

It's always going to be there, no matter what he does, or what he says, or what he tries to do. You don't get to pack that kind of thing in. That lysergic, clear void of sadness that happens in the wake of somebody leaving you behind. He's been coming at things wrong, and he admits it to himself.

He's just been trying to fill the space of himself back in again.

He's still thinking of Connor as his old buddy, his best friend, his partner, and the person who makes him feel like nobody else in the world. The person who he has a million inside jokes with, who he’s seen Lord of the Rings with about a thousand times, the android who he saved, and saved him in turn, all those years ago.

Things have changed, whether he likes it or not. He needs to respect the fact that something has shifted, and the person before him is different than before, maybe forever. And him? He's not the same guy either.

They need to start over. He needs to approach this whole thing without any expectations. He needs to meet the new, different Connor that's in front of him now, just like he's meeting the brand new Detective for the very first time. It's tricky, but it's an infant chance. That thing he keeps talking about. A do-over, without the ghost of who he used to be. It's time to start treating the whole thing like it is one.

"What are you apologizing for, Detective?"

Connor looks up at him, and just for a second, a little bit of that rage, and that sadness, is replaced by a small curiosity.

It's better than nothing. It'll have to do.  
  
Baby steps.

"I just. . . I want you to know. . ."

Anthony sends him another message, and it pops up in the corner of his vision.

_'Car. Appointment. Driving. Now. Let's go old man.'_

He tries to say what he wants as concisely as possible.

"You're a good detective. You're great, really. I'm not trying to make your life any harder than it already is, so if I have, then I'm _sorry_. You deserve not to look at my sorry mug day in and day out, but, hell, looks like we're going to be stuck here a while. I know this shit kind of blindsided you, my transfer and everything and. . . I'm sorry. You don't have to like me that much. You don't have to want to be my 'best bud forever' or some shit, but I just want you to know that no matter what, I'm here for you. Whatever you need, whenever, I'll be there. It's your call on what that ends up meaning to you, but what the hell, it's there if you want it."

"What is, Detective?"

Nate gives him a pause, unsure of how far he should take the line of thought, but decides that maybe, for a moment, what the android deserves his just plain, simple honestly.

"An acquaintance. Someone who isn't judging you. Someone who, I promise, just has good intentions for you in mind. Somebody around who you can just be yourself with, before work, after, whenever. A friend, Connor. If that’s what you decide. If you think you might need one."

Connor sidles for a moment, completely unsure of how to respond. Nate gives him a second, and when he doesn't get anything in return, turns and walks away.

Behind him, Connor stares while he goes, a bit shocked, a bit confused, a bit angry still, to be honest, and watches the Detective disappear.

Before he rounds the corner, he greets the man who Connor knows as Anthony, 'just a friend who I like to see every now and then after work,' Cole had explained. They say something that Connor can't quite make out over the rushing din of the busy evening, his line of sight blurred by passing bodies to and fro, and Anthony rolls his eyes at whatever comment the Detective says to him.

They share a laugh, and push at each other while they walk towards the door, a warm and tangible camaraderie obvious between them. Connor feels a pulsing, stabbing thing digging around within him. A little, curious mixture, of persistent, genuine exhaustion, and annoyance at the Detective's gall to leave work two hours early. It’s peppered with a small dash of jealousy at the way their eyes light up when they talk.

Their genuine, wholehearted friendship.

But the overwhelming flavor, of that feeling deep down, is a melancholic thing. A bittersweet memory, of the hundreds of times that he and Hank had walked through that door. The fleeting taste of long-past happiness when they'd banter between them, the same exact way, off to some crime scene, or back to Hank's for another high-fantasy extended edition on a late Friday evening. And how they'd get into that shitty, horrible, decrepit car, dodging traffic and potholes, heads banging along while the double kick of the bass throttled right through them, and they burst into tears, laughing, while Connor horribly sang along to the screaming lyrics.

'You can't hold a goddamn tune to save your life', Hank would say, and Connor would immediately agree.

'Well you sound like a horrible, dying parrot,’ he'd fire back, and they'd keep on singing anyway, out of tune, out of their minds, windows down, who cares if they saw.

He'd never told anyone else, not even Nines, not another soul, but in those little moments? He always would wonder what would happen if he'd place his hand over Hank's in the middle of the console. Brushed his fingers over his, gently, and told him the way he really felt. 

But he'd always been too scared to do it. Too afraid that if he did, Hank would flinch away, with a little, 'oh,' and 'it's just not like that, kid,' and that honest, joyful, gleam in his eye would all but disappear. They wouldn't have those car rides anymore. No more late nights binging old 90s cinema. No more screaming together, in the middle of the city, while they didn't care about a goddamn thing happening around them.

Even if he wanted more, at the end of the day, he couldn't risk losing what he'd already had.

But he'd lost it anyway, hadn't he? He didn't ever say what he wanted to, for two years, and held it within. Now he never could. He has to accept that one day.

It won't be today.

But that peace, that kinship. . . He hasn’t had that, not for a while now. Sure, he would always have Nines, but it wasn't the same connection, not the kind he has with Gavin. The kind he had with Hank.

That's the feeling he’s holding within him when Fowler lumbers over, mumbles a terse ‘here, you kids are gonna be busy tomorrow,’ handing him a half-assed little case file, something Connor probably should have picked up on as complete and total bullshit, but too lost in that semi-sweet memory, to realize. He scans the thing quickly, stuck in himself, subconsciously tapping out the kick drum part from a Black Death b-side, struck with the realization that this is the first time he's thought about Hank, and he hasn't immediately wanted to burst into tears.

The sadness isn't gone. For all he knows, it might never truly leave. But for whatever reason, the genuine way that the Detective had spoke to him, and the way he smiled at his friend. . .  
  
In the back of his mind, there’s the small, simple wish, that one day, he could have someone look at him like that again.

His eyes drift over the paper in front of him.

**GREGORIO TUPICKOW/ NARCOTICS DISTRIBUTION/ APPROXIMATELY 6-8 MURDERS TIED DIRECTLY TO SUSPECT**

_Anonymous Tip: Appearance at Majestic Theatre, Thursday December 20th, 7:00pm. Attending concert with known members of entourage. Opportunity for arrest and capture. Attend venue in plainclothes and blend with crowd until opportunity for rendezvous/ evidence gathering/ arrest._

Theres a set of tickets included.

Connor looks at the name of the venue, and the group to be featured.

Huh.

What a coincidence.

It's his favorite band.

He looks down to the two laminated rectangles in his palms.

It's just work. They're going to be on duty, only pretending to be there, stuffed in the crowd. He has an obligation to stay on his toes, and the night may end bloody. But at the same time, the tickets are in the front row, after all. 

It’s an unexpected, appreciated, needed moment of something good happening for once.

Maybe, just maybe, he'll let himself enjoy things while he's there. Just for a moment.

For the first time in a long, long while, the idea of an evening spent somewhere else, besides under the hot station lights, sitting next to the abandoned desk of the man he once loved at the DPD, sounds like something he just might enjoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the chapter title was an Avril Lavigne lyric, you read it right.


	8. The Sky, and The City, and Everything Between.

Connor can barely keep his excitement contained when he gets home that evening.

It's the first time in months that he doesn't remember almost snapping the key in the door when he goes to step inside, doesn't throw his jacket angrily into the closet in the hall, or feel like screaming while he's forced to wait out the night until he can go back to work the following morning. He doesn't feel catatonic. He doesn't feel inconsolable, not held up in some indeterminate rage towards the world, just. . .

He shakes his head, in the middle of unlacing his shoes, putting on some slippers, Sumo pawing at his calf to be fed for the evening.

Work. He's going to work tomorrow, not a joy ride through a 'best hits' playlist.

But boy did it feel like the universe was doing him a favor, for a change, instead of beating him over the head with another carefully calculated 'fuck you, and fuck you in particular RK-800.'

He can't help himself.

Sure, it might be a hot date with a serial murderer, and a night with an android who sort of frustrates him in a uniquely indescribable way, but. . .

He’s ridiculously excited, as weird as it might be. He’s never been to a concert before.

He puts that playlist, that does actually exist, on anyway. He sings the words of all the songs to himself in the solitude of his apartment, and puts the thing on repeat all over again when the track list runs out an hour and a half later. He makes himself a spot on the balcony, in the corner where only the one neighbor can see him, and keeps on and on. He leaves the sliding glass door open so Sumo can get in, and out, of the forty degree wind chill. He hits none of the notes, none of the right harmonies, but he doesn't stop. He doesn't have any other care in the world as he sits on the balcony, the melody drifting in the cold black air from the inside, out. He hasn't sang like this in a very long while.

The neighbor opens their patio door, sighing into the cold, asking him to keep it down a bit, and he apologizes with a curt 'sorry’ before turning the dial a few notches down.

When he hears her retreat all the way back towards the middle of the apartment, he pauses for a good sixty seconds, then he raises it again, a little louder than before.

_‘Cheeky little bastard.‘_

That’s what Hank would say, if he were there.

He smiles to himself, alone.

It feels. . . good, to be doing this again.

He sits there in the night, on that small little corner, feet propped up on the railing, in a thick cabled sweater, and just exists for a little while.

He simply _is_ , between the sounds of the city below him, the traffic on the highway to his left, the lights dappling the horizon line. Between the words floating around him, and the soft, fine feeling of Sumo's fur beneath his fingertips while he strokes him gently. He feels guilty while his hand goes back, and forth, when he can’t recall another time he’s spent this long caring for the dog in the past half-year.

Sumo seems to know his inner musing, and flops further towards him on the patio chair, practically smothering the whole small balcony. He’s dug in, buried thick within the sheep's wool dog-bed and Connor's forearm on the side. He huffs at him, a few little whimpers. It's as if he's offering a small truce.

 _'It’s ok, Connor, I forgive you, but only if you keep scratching that place between my ears._ '

The dog's eyes widen, and look up at Connor, ears perked, earnestly.

_'Well, are we doing this thing or not?'_

Connor grins, and reaches down, digging in the exact way he knows that Sumo loves the most.

"I'm sorry, boy. I promise I'll be better."

He spots a glimpse of the tag when the dog turns his head. The handwriting. The jagged script. His thirium pump catches a moment, just like it always does. He waits for the panicked, sickly feeling to come, roll over him in waves, but this time he's not filled with that inescapable loathing.

This hasn't happened before.

Sumo whines underneath him, a soft little noise.

_'It’s ok, I miss him too.'_

The corners of his eyes mist over, just a bit, while Sumo's tail wags on. Connor turns towards the speaker, and sets it down low. He gets up from the patio chair, just briefly, and sets it next to the side of the balcony wall, before coming back over. He sits down next to the mutt, almost as big as he his, and shimmies himself down toward his side. Sumo always loved it when he'd do that at the house, with Hank. While they watched movies for hours, until the sun rose and they didn't get a wink of sleep or stasis before their shift, like idiots.

Those are some of his favorite memories. He hasn't thought about them in some time.

Connor snuggles closer, and throws a wool blanket over him, even though he really doesn’t need it, laying there.

He lifts his eyes to the stars, blinking between the Edison lights strung along the balcony posts above him, and the little wisps of wind and snow commingling in the air, mountains high, near the clouds. The thick of the winter hovers over him, and he's just present there. In the cold, and the fur, and the sound of their life together, their broken little family. He listens to the steady, thumping heartbeat that gradually slows as Sumo falls gently asleep. His own mechanical whirring hums somewhere deep within.

He watches his breath rise, and fall. He does that, for some reason. Breathes, on purpose, when he’s not speaking. He always felt closer to truly alive when his lungs were full. Something about the motion always seemed so real, so honest. So human.

They lay there, on that December-dark night, breathing together, in the peace, and the silence.

A third set of lungs is missing. The voice that carries on from the little speaker, into the big black sky above, isn't the one that it should be. It's too high, to be his. It should be low, whisky thick, growling. It should feel like syrup on the tongue. It should put lightning and fire in Connor's fingertips, in his veins, in every part of him, through and through.

The final note rings. Coup de grace, needle lifted, that's the end.

The playlist has run out, for the second time that day. Connor can't bring himself to get up from where he's laying, and push the repeat button again. Out of every single evening since August 3rd, one-hundred and thirty-eight of them, for the first time, he feels ok. He feels safe. He doesn't feel so alone.

He doesn't want to be so alone.

_'A friend, Connor. If that’s what you decide. If you think you might need one.'_

Not yet, detective. Not yet.

But perhaps. . .

He opens his internal messaging system, laying there, the stars and the lights rising to the celestial nowhere while they glow in his eyes far, far below. He accesses the contacts list, fourth contact down, the one that he hasn't bothered to put a name onto yet, just a string of random numbers. He scrolls past the smattering of short, one word messages, tiny little sentences, begrudging communications, to the text-box below.

. . .

**Message sent// 11:38pm// December 19th**

_'You should at least know what we're going to pretend to listen to. Just in case you wanted to blend in better, tomorrow evening.'_

//ATTATCH FILE[PLAYLIST]  
;MUSIC EVEN AN IDIOT SHOULD ENJOY

. . .

. . .

. . .

**Message received// 11:41pm// December 19th**

' _Thanks, Connor.'_

. . .

He accesses the root menu. He changes the listing, a brand new name hovering in the contact line.

'Detective Cole.'

He pulls the blanket up higher, and closes his eyes, drifting.

. . .

He changes it again before initiating stasis, setting an internal timer to wake himself in seven hours, and snuggles even closer to the dog.

'Nathan.'


	9. Is That the Bass That I’m Hearing, or The Sound of Your Bursting Blue Heart?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT 09/29: I'm a dummy and didn't actually realize in my brain nugget that they should just be TALKING internally to each other in this chapter, so that's been changed from messaging to that kind of communication, my b.
> 
> Hi there! 
> 
> Since this section does include music, and this scenario as a cornerstone of establishing a new relationship for Nate and Connor, I’ve included a guide below for you to listen to the songs I’ve used within this chapter if you’d like to.
> 
> As much as I’m comfortable writing android smut and pining for the internet, I cannot, and will not, make up shitty song lyrics and post them LOL. Just pretend like the featured band wouldn’t all be 65 in 2040.
> 
> Short, four song playlist:
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4tUcsqSWFbL9niqciocLUi?si=OaqEOB2KS-G6bJoZjDKQ6Q
> 
> Each song will be noted as ♬(1), ♬(2), etc etc if you’d like to know the appropriate time when they’d correspondingly play when reading. They are in order within the playlist!
> 
> Also, Dot Hacker is absolutely amazing so you should listen to everything by them if you like that kind of thing. Shameless favorite band plug.
> 
> That’s it, and thank you so so much for reading!

“6:15. . .”

 _Tap_.

“6:16. . .”

 _Tap. Tap_.

“6:17. . .”

 _Tap. Tap. Double Tap_.

“6:18. . .”

_Ta—_

" _CONNOR_ , for the love of fucking _god_ the whole station can hear you over there, you mind toning it down a bit?"

Reed’s voice cuts through the floor of the DPD, over towards Connor, who’s counting every minute that the Detective runs late, feverishly tapping a pen on the corner of his desk, lost in his own little world. His head shoots up, and he looks around, finding more than one slightly disgruntled looking officer rubbing at their temples, likely with a burgeoning headache.

"Sorry, apologies," he throws out to the onlookers, blushing, earning him a few annoyed grunts, and a few ‘fucking finallys’ in between.

He can't help it, he wants to tell them. He’s excited, and nervous, and even though it’s just a work assignment, it doesn’t change the fact that he’s about to short-circuit from the anticipation, and they’re going to miss the opening set if they take too long.

He’s never been to a concert before, and he can’t quite seem to keep the little elated bubble of anticipation inside him. He tries settling on chaotically bobbing his leg up and down after Gavin yells instead, playing out the rhythm of album two, third song, introduction and chorus, left leg hi-hat right leg--

Suddenly Reed is before him, slapping his hand down, as hard as he can, onto Connors left side. He jumps a mile in his seat, distracted beyond words can express, blissfully ignorant yet again of the persistent noise he’s creating.

"You know, your chair squeaks really, _really_ loud when you do that."

Reed gives him one of his signature, Gavin-only faces, that exudes something between sarcasm and the threat of bodily harm. So Connor very literally forces himself to halt, still vibrating wildly on the inside. After, Reed narrows his eyes further, staring with his arms crossed on his chest. Like he’s planning something, in that way he does.

"Been a while since we talked, tin-can 2."

Connor averts his eyes, attempting to turn away from Gavin in his chair, not wanting the cigarette-laden stench of his presence to sour this rare, happy mood. But like the shark that he is, he simply swims round the desk, and hunts his gaze down on the opposite side, biting down.

"Come on, man, you don't have five minutes to spare for your brother's favorite human in the whole wide world?"

"I have no time _whatsoever_."

Gavin pauses, seeming to mull over a decision (The use of his brain? It still shocks Connor every time) before clicking his tongue, and moving closer again.

"Well, too bad."

Reed shoos him out of the way, steps by and grabs a chair from the unused desk to Connor’s right, flopping down with his arms crossed on top of the back, merely inches away. Connor sighs, mood decaying an approximate twelve-percent and dropping, all thanks to Reed and his salacious little grin. He might as well get this over with, as soon as he possibly can.

"What do you want, then, if we really have to do this now?"

"Just checking up on Nines’ behalf, that's all."

"He knows where I live. He calls me. We’re _fine_."

Connor shrugs, and turns his shoulders away from Reed, hoping a bored approach may discourage any further inquiry.

"Yeah, you talk like every three weeks, and you barely manage to squeak out a ' _fine, yes, ok, see you soon_ ,' and then you fuckin' hang up. He still gets really worried about you, ya know."

Connor sighs, and rolls his chair even further, to the last vestiges of the desk available, picking something random to put in his hands and make himself look too occupied and busy to continue any further.

"You haven't been down to the shop in like, two months. And you keep avoiding every single invite he sends you to come over, so he's starting to get the impression that things might be getting bad again."

"They're just fine, Reed, you have my permission to tell him."

Gavin snorts, and gives Connor a reproachful look.

"Oh, is that why you keep trying to tear Cole's head off every day? Why there’s no smiling in your general direction of the station anymore? Because you feel ‘super-fuckin-duper?‘"

Connor leafs through some random file. Please. Something, anything, but this.

"For your information, Reed, and only because I know you'll relay this to Nines and he'll feel better to hear it, things are. . . getting better."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, _'that is so_.'"

Down another three percent in the past two minutes.

Someone help him, anybody.

Connor lifts the sleeve back from the yellow and black flannel he's wearing, and checks the wristwatch underneath. He's got a dark covered beanie covering his LED, and street clothes below. His disguise for the evening, pretending just to be some thirty-something year old guy, out on the town, seeing a show. Black heathered v-neck t-shirt, slightly worn and ripped bleach-distressed grey jeans, maroon pair of Doc Martens. Nathan had messaged him that afternoon, asking if it would be best to put on some hipster attire, so they didn't roll in with slacks and starched collars and stick out like a sore thumb. It was a good idea, really, so Connor agreed that they'd both put on something appropriate before meeting back at the station, at 6:15pm, so they could drive the Ford to the venue together.

Connor had actually had the clothes in his closet already, from before, when he and Hank would do various activities around town. He hadn’t brought them out in a while, no need to since the Summer.

He uh. . . Hadn’t been out much.

It was little to no time before he went back home at the end of first shift, dusted off the cobwebs, and changed into the outfit. He looked in the mirror, pulling the beanie down to his brow, turned to Sumo laying there behind him and gave him a 'well, how do I look?’

The little chuff, and slobber that drips off of Sumo's chin while he spreads his arms and gives a two point turn had either meant that it was absolutely fine, and he looked good enough to drool over, or that he looked so ridiculous that he felt the need to hurl on the floor.

It was fifty-fifty.

Connor eventually decided that it wasn't like there was anyone he was needing to impress anyway, and headed out of the apartment with the atypical wardrobe, and implored his chassis to throw some chipped black varnish onto his nails, just for the sake of the ensemble.

When he arrived at the station again, Chen had almost tackled him to the ground when he rolled past the turnstile, looking completely and utterly unlike himself at all. She stopped just at the last second when she finally saw his full face, narrowly avoiding disaster.

"Sorry dude, I thought you were some weirdo who’d swiped your badge and was trying to stab some officer."

"It's fine, really. I don’t normally dress this way. It's understandable."

She nods her head, and turns it slightly to the side, giving Connor a curious look while tapping her chin.

"Do have to say though. . ."

She pinches his flannel between her fingers, and does a little motion asking Connor to twirl. He sighs, and obliges, only because he feels increasingly embarrassed by how apparently ridiculous he looks.

"You look _hot_ , dude."

"Oh. Uh, well. . ."

Connor clears his throat, unsure of how to react, the comment not what he was expecting. Ridiculous, even. He doesn't think of himself that way, at all, and it's honestly a bit strange hearing it come from someone's mouth, let alone a person he sees on a day to day basis at work.

". . . thank you?"

"You're welcome, man. You should dress down more often. You can make anything look good though, so what am I even saying. Just keep doing you, Connie."

She gives him a thumbs up, and Connor slowly raises his own, returning the gesture with an awkward half smile and furrowed eyebrow, confused. She bounces away, back to the boys in narcotics, and Connor wanders off.

He’d sat down, feeling a bit shaken by the encounter, but distracted himself by the countdown to their agreed meetup at 6:15 to pass the time.

So while Reed accosts him, the watch at his wrist reads out 6:28pm now, crunch time if they want to make it in time to wade in with the crowd, find a good vantage point, and be there for the introduction.

A good vantage point for the criminal watching, that is. The _job_. His _job_. Yeah, the important part. The whole reason why he's attending the event in the first place.

He grumbles internally that the Detective had better find it appropriate to get there soon, or they were going to go about fifteen steps back from the fragile, tentative peace they had managed to broker between them, right into a hell-pit of 'permanent scorched earth partnership.'

As if he beckoned him from the great beyond, Connor hears the squeaking of the precinct door, and the sound of Nathan's voice as he greets the receptionist at the front.

He turns to his bottom desk drawer, eager to go, looking for the more discreet ID he can easily store in his pocket, and deposits his Smith and Wesson Model 39 to the secure slot below, unable to bring it for the evening. They'll check for weapons before they even make it into the parking lot with the metal and firearms detectors, so there's no point in having his favorite gun confiscated unnecessarily.

While he forages, searching for the little black square with his ID, he hears Gavin whistle on his left, like some blasé old black and white cartoon character.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Gotta say, when they want to, they do some _damn_ fine work over there on Belle Isle.”

"What are you _talking_ about, Reed?"

Connor curses under his breath, still struggling to locate the badge amidst the mountain of papers, when he spots it wedged between two folders in the back.

He stretches back up, and deposits his credentials to his right front pocket, beginning to straighten his flannel back out when he follows Reed's line of sight, towards the front of the precinct. Chen’s got the Detective pinned down, giving him the exact same treatment as she did to Connor thirty minutes before. He twirls around when she asks, doing the gesture dramatically, stopping when he's turned, rolling his shoulders salaciously where they're covered in a distressed, black leather jacket, tight fitting oxblood raglan, and cream colored scarf. He says something coy, like 'enjoying what you're seeing, Chen?' and she laughs at him while pointing down his skin-tight dark jeans to the chunky, thick-soled biker boot he's got hidden underneath.

Gavin shakes his head, clucking his tongue, making a completely unnecessary set of noises that Connor, and his partially blue, curiously warm face, wants absolutely nothing to do with.

“Do you have any semblance of a constructive comment, Reed, or are you just continuing your duties as Lucifer's right hand asshole?”

He scoffs, and puts his hand to his chest emphatically, turning away from Nathan and the show beyond for just a fraction of a second to make sure that Connor gets the full brunt of his drama.

“What?! I’m just sayin.’ Don’t even try and argue, you _clearly_ see that the guy is in a whole ‘nother level as far as design goes, I mean. . . Damn. . .” Reed cocks his head to the side, almost ninety-degrees, eyes fixed on the Detective’s snug jeans, “ _That_ right there, would make the Mona Lisa weep by itself.”

“I have absolutely zero time for this line of commentary.”

“What?! I appreciate asses of all shapes and sizes. Nines just so happens to have my best and most absolute favorite."

“Please, stop, the mere presence of the imagery you've suggested is enough for me to regurgitate the four ounces of thirium I consumed back at lunch.”

“You move me with such poetry, Connie.”

He really hated it when he called him that.

“Besides, isn’t it ‘emotional adultery’ for you to be commenting on this kind of thing while you’re actively in a relationship?”

Reed scoffs disdainfully, and feigns clutching his proverbial pearls while he finally stands up, and begins to slowly back away.

“Excuse me, _sir_ , but ass-watching just so happen to be a favored pastime between the schnookums and I, this is our Thursday night special.”

“I’m telling him you called him that.”

Reed sticks a pointed finger out and narrows his eyes.

"Don't you fuckin' dare. I’ll pour my coffee down your neck and short-circuit you when you’re not looking."

Nathan starts to head over then, and Reed takes it as a sign that the fun's over, thankfully, slinking back towards the hole from whence he came. He makes it halfway before adding a pointed, 'and for fucks sakes, you need to come see your brother sometime,' and Nathan approaches their little corner of the station, grinning.

"Please tell me Reed hasn't said anything too offensive, I just bought this shirt and I don’t want to get blood on it before I wear it at least twice."

”Yes, well, we’re going on a mission, Detective, nothing more, nothing less. Let’s not get too excited about the whole menagerie.”

Was the talking to Nathan, or himself?

. . .

”Fine, fine. Took me a bit longer buying this crap than I’d thought so let’s get going before we’re late.”

Connor leaves out a comment about ‘and who’s fault would that be,’ not wanting to strike another sour note this evening, especially after his unfortunate encounter with Reed.

Nathan turns to go in front of him, and together they pace out of the precinct floor, towards the parking garage below them. As they walk on the oil-stained concrete on sub-level three, the tangerine glow of the fluorescent lights above them catch and sliver along the supple black leather on the Detective’s shoulders, and the thick silver hair he’s got bunched together in a loose bun at the back of his neck.

Connor can’t help but think back on what Reed had said a few minutes before.

If he’s speaking in a completely, utterly, in all ways objective sense. . .

He was right.

Nathan did look good.

Objectively.

Connor thinks about his own, loud, canary-yellow flannel, and wonders if it was such a good idea after all when they finally reach the Ford, and he unlocks it for them to step inside. They’ve ridden together a dozen times at this point, seeing as the Behemoth is their main mode of transportation to and from crime scenes, and settle into their respective sides.

Connor pulls it out of the garage, axles squealing, just like they always do, and they start up East Adams towards Woodward Avenue beyond.

Connor’s gripping the steering wheel, and they weave through the traffic in silence. A not quite awkward, not quite cordial air settles between them, and he wonders if he should put something on the radio just to fill the void. He doesn’t want to put the same music they’re about to hear on, so he decides to offer a simple peace offering towards the Detective, and let him choose.

”You’re serious? You’re going to let me actually touch the radio?”

”That matches the definition of ‘pick a song if you’d like, Detective,’ yes.”

”You’re letting me interrupt the sacred pact between driver and beast to choose? You’re serious?”

”If you say anything else I’ll retract the given privilege. I estimate around six minutes to the destination, so it’s not like we’ll be subjected to whatever cacophony you choose for very long.”

Cole scoffs, and rolls his eyes, and rolls down the window.

”Thanks for the vote of confidence, partner.”

”Any time. But really, you can go ahead.”

Connor gives him the smallest, most conservative smile he can possibly muster, attempting to demonstrate a feeling of, ‘hey, what you said yesterday? I thought about it, and I’m still not sure about you, but we’re here, aren’t we, so we might as well give getting along a try.’

Nathan lifts his eyebrow, confirming what he’s trying to get across, and Connor throws on a more banal look, to follow up with a ‘yes, but if you pick something awful it’ll forever taint my opinion of you, so choose wisely.’

The Detective mulls things over a bit, accessing the port for the satellite uplink, scrolling through the database of songs thirty or so seconds, before he nods his head.

♬(1)

A mid-toned, classic guitar riff settles over the speakers. Some cowbell joins in, and a 70s era rock ballad croons low, and melancholic.

_All our times have come_   
_Here but now they’re gone_   
_Seasons don’t fear the reaper_   
_Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain, we can be like_   
_They are_

_Come on baby, don’t fear the reaper_   
_Baby take my hand, don’t fear the reaper_   
_We’ll be able to fly, don’t fear the reaper_   
_Baby I’m your man_

Connor recognizes it immediately:

Don’t Fear (The Reaper), Blue Oyster Cult, Agents of Fortune, 1976.

A decision brimming with underlying implication, and Connor’s detective nature hones in like a hawk. Connor concedes that it’s a decent tune, and bobs his head along gently while they weave through the traffic.

“Your choice is interesting, Detective. A timeless rock ballad, notably popular among those who consider classic-rock and metal derivatives to be superior genres, more so than modern alternative forms. Exactly 5:08 seconds long, which would eliminate my ability to choose a song of my own in retort before we arrive at our destination, and undermine your choices set precedent. A safe pick for anyone that considers themselves a musical bibliophile, and further says that you considered my preference for alternative and guitar driven melody when choosing, but wanted to demonstrate your musical intellect and superiority by playing a song you would consider a better melody of a more noteworthy style.”

Nathan snorts in the passenger seat, staring out the window, and throws his head back to laugh.

“Nah, I just know that modern bull all sucks.”

“I vehemently disagree with that statement.”

“Anything made after the year 2003 is complete and utter horse-shit.”

“Did you even bother to listen to what I sent you yesterday evening?”

Nathan taps his fingers gently on the dash, and says mumbles out a tiny, bullshitting ‘well, no, it was late and I figured I’d hear it tomorrow anyway, so. . .’

Connor sighs, and rolls his eyes, halfway amused at his sheer gall, and half annoyed with his penchant for stubbornness.

“I see you were programmed without a sense of taste and culture, then.”

“Taste? For that indie-crap? Unnecessary.”

“Oh, I suppose you consider yourself to be the authority on this matter?”

“I wrote the rule book, sweetheart.”

Connor shakes his head, and rolls his eyes. The detective and his bizarre way of expressing himself.

“And your attempt at posturing was uncovered within approximately 2.4 seconds of its initiation.”

“Oh, you think you know me just based on one thing I put on the radio, eh?”

Look who’s talking.

Connor smirks, a self-assured little thing, unbridled confidence on his features for the first time in months. He turns on his right hand blinker, signaling he wishes to turn to the lot beside them, and queues for the inspection line while the song fades on the dashboard. They shuffle in past the other smaller, more compact electric vehicles that have arrived, apologizing briefly when they almost rear-end another driver trying to shove the Behemoth into the lines, and he turns off the ignition.

Before they move to go, Connor turns to Nathan, offering a mischevious look as he gathers his belongings into his tight jean pockets.

“Just remember one thing, Detective. I’m the most advanced android that CyberLife ever built. I hunt down Deviants. Being inside of your head? Knowing the motivation behind your every move?. . .”

Nathan gulps beside him, in the shade of the intimidating eclipse that Connor’s bestowing him.

“. . . That’s my specialty, Detective. Keep that in mind.”

Connor winks, and it’s like he’s the same sarcastic, sly robot that rolled off of the line back in 2038. He doesn’t know what’s come over him this evening. What broke through that red glass barrier of unrelenting disdain his mood was living behind. He thinks it’s still there, more than likely, as they queue with the tickets, and a quick ‘let’s get inside and establish a position to survey the room.’ But for tonight?

The door was open, somehow, and he would be remiss if he didn’t step on through, and enjoy things while they lasted.

But they still had a job to do.

“Keep an eye on the right-side, Detective, I’ll cover the left.”

They’re stuffed on the far side of the stage, on the incline that leads up to the seats, near the standing room crowd. They’d gone to the designated location of their tickets, and decided that with a pole on their right in the way, they’d have no visual on the door leading into the venue. Connor suggested they enmesh into the crowd below, and they patiently pushed their way forward until they were towards the edge of the throng, high on the gentle slope, a sea of black temples and blue glowing rings, a healthy mixture.

Not that it mattered, Nate says to himself as they shuffle into the throng, a few road-crew members going back and forth on the catwalk to make sure the band’s setup was ready. They wouldn’t need any sight lines or visuals, this evening.

Little did he know.

Connor stands there, a nervous, fluttering feeling deep in his gut, roiling with sequestered anticipation when the crowd starts to scream, and a line of four middle-aged men in various pieces of dark clothing step onto the stage. They say nothing as the crowd raves, a wailing, writhing mess of sound, and simply begin to play without introduction. He struggles, immensely, to keep his eyes trained towards the door on the wall, and not the event unfolding.

♬(2)

A long, melancholy set of strings render over the sea of bodies, stretching the introduction as long as it dares, before a heady beat dissolves the tension, drums pounding, black melody, something chaotic, something swirling.

_If the sun was never to rise_   
_And with the moon affecting the tides_   
_It’d be a long dark night_   
_So aim your glow_   
_Guide the ships in_   
_Aim your glow_   
_Hope someone’s watching_   
_Aim your glow_

Nate doesn’t know what he’s expecting, mostly because he’d seen the band’s name before, and always assumed it’d be some typical, boring sort of alternative upbeat thing over the years.

Lord knows he has exceedingly specific about exactly what he’d bother listening to.

But the bewitching timbre catches him completely off guard. The minor tone, and the pulsing rhythm cascades higher and higher among the smoke, and sweat, vodka tinge, and alcoholic thirium tang around them.

He wishes they weren’t doing the ‘on-duty’ charade, because he’d had no idea that anyone even made that kind of thing for androids, and the sound of a stiff drink, in a hazy room, with ear-splitting music around him, was a perfect night in heaven.

Plus, you know, the android he was still wrestling his feelings with.

When they’d passed by the bar, he’d asked Connor about the product.

”It’s not actually distilled liquor of any kind, no processors for that in the common android. It distributes a short line of code that provides a simulated inhibition for a short time. Haziness. Overrides the normal processing order of the cyber-brain’s protocols. An android equivalent to achieving a buzz.”

Connor shrugs, and lifts an eye.

”Did they not have that sort of thing in Chicago, Detective? I would have thought you’d have seen such a thing before, it’s quite popular.”

Nate has to think of some crap excuse on the fly, something like ‘yeah, well, he hasn’t really noticed it before.’

Connor had seemed halfway unconvinced, but nonetheless turned back around, and they continued to their side of the room.

Nate has that old, twenty-year long craving for something stiff in his hand while he and Connor stand there in the throng, listening to the cadence around them.

The music? It’s. . . It’s not half bad.

Begrudgingly admitted.

He steals a glance at Connor next to him, who looks like he’s about to pop a gasket, obviously struggling with the ability to carefully survey the room for a threat that won’t even be there, and the fact that they just so happen to be starting with his second favorite tune from their entire discography.

Nate knows he’s never been to a live show. They never did that, before. He kicks himself for never asking if he’d wanted to do it the past two years, considering the absolute shit-eating grin Connor’s badly hiding on his face. A first concert was sacred, an absolutely holy experience for any person, android or no, and he deserves to have a good time, not throw a thirium clot and keel over.

Nate sighs, and leans towards Connor, yelling as loud as he can.

“HEY, YOU CAN ENJOY YOURSELF, YOU KNOW?”

. . .

“WHAT?”

“I SAID YOU CAN ENJOY YOURSELF!”

“. . . WHAT?!”

Not even their sensitive hearing could pick up on a voice right next to them among the noise, so Nate opens a communication channel with Connor, talking to him internally.

**_‘I said that you should just enjoy yourself, I can cover the door, and the whole place from here. I don’t even like this kind of gig, you’re more than welcome to just listen for a few songs. I’ll let you know if anything major happens.’_ **

Not that it would.

. . .

‘ _That would be irresponsible of me to divert my attention so severely._ ’

The band dies down around them, the last note of the first song ringing clear across the room, and the crowd starts wailing again as the ensemble makes their obligatory introductory statements for the night. Nate leans into Connor’s ear, speaking out loud while they have the chance again.

“Look, I’ve got the same facial scanning capability that you do, and it’s not that hard to just sit here and stare at everybody walking in. We know they’re not in here already, so just. . .”

♬(3)

The band starts up again, a faster, more urgent rhythm and bass kicking in.

“. . . Have fun.”

Connor huffs, and crosses his arms, LED blinking yellow under the brim of the beanie as he struggles to concede to the Detective’s, admittedly, passable logic. The song plays on for two and a half minutes or so, the crowd jumping up and down on the downbeat of the 4/4 rhythm, and Nate rolls his eyes, realizing he’s got to take more drastic measures to override ‘good-boy’ protocol.

You can take the robot out of the Detective, but you can’t take the Detective out of the. . .

. . . That’s not right.

Pony up, you big baby, Nate muses to himself, shaking his fingers out, steadying his nerves, getting ready to do something that he never, in the fifty-some-odd years he’s been alive, or dead, or anywhere in between, has done.

He begins to dance.

In _public_.

Barely, if you can even call it that, swaying side to side along with the rhythm he doesn’t know, to shake some of the stiff fucking stubbornness out of Connor’s goddamn chassis, in the middle of the floor for everyone to see.

He feels like he’s going to die, all over again, mortified internally but telling himself that ‘if this is what’ll convince him that he can chill the fuck out, so help me god, I’ll do the ballet right here.’

. . .

No he won’t.

But the sentiment is what counts, and while he moves side to side, Connor catches the jerking in the corner of his vision, and does a double take. He stares blankly at the detective while he observes the absolute menagerie that is Nathan Cole attempting to do some wonky movements that one can barely classify as anything short of a seizure.

CyberLife did not program him with grace and poise.

_‘What in the world are you doing right now?’_

**_‘Hey, if you’re not going to let loose, then you can watch the door and I’ll stand here having the time of my life instead, it’s your call.’_ **

Nate shrugs his shoulders, and continues on, even wilder than before, joining in with the crowd when they jump during the bridge.

Connor gets the message, clear as it can be considering the bizarre, strangled sashay in front of him, and grips his partner’s forearm tightly. He pleads with his eyes, begging him to stop before he hurts himself, or some innocent bystander for that matter. Nate smiles back at him, looking from the touch, to his face, offering a knowing smile. Connor sighs, and mouths a quick, ‘alright, fine,’ and they switch places, Connor turning his body from the far side door to square at the middle of the stage.

The music fades while the detective takes up the place to his side.

♬(4)

Up on stage, the singer picks up an acoustic, Spanish guitar from the stand next to him, immediately kicking off the next song with a softer, more entrancing flourish.

It just so happens to be Connor’s favorite song.

_Rest assure there will be more_   
_Onslaughts_   
_Off days_   
_More to endure_   
_Outside ain’t getting easier_   
_Live a long time_   
_To look back on before_

The corners of his mouth curve up, and up, and upward even more, glad beyond anything that before the evening turns to the job at hand, he’s going to get to hear this particular song. Before he knows it, nothing else but the earthquake rolling through him with the bass, and the melody exists. He forgets about the target, and life outside of the room, lost in the swirl of bewitching notes in the air, and the breath in his lungs, and the exquisite feeling that he’s here, in this moment.

_Take me back_   
_To when I had both eyes on the floor_   
_Looking up, before,_   
_Before the forlorn_

The crowd stirs even further as the harmony builds, and the air feels electric on his synthetic skin.

_So easy you’re led astray_   
_So easy your minds change_   
_Like a weather vane all day_   
_Live your whole life ashamed_   
_No wonder your edges frayed_   
_Afraid_

_Send the rest ashore_   
_So we all can explore_   
_As yet I’ve found nothing_   
_But I know there’s more_

The music is running through him, loud, catastrophic, earth shattering, bone breaking. He doesn’t know how the humans in the crowd can stand it, but he doesn’t care. He can do nothing but let himself be taken along as the song rises higher and higher. He shouts the lyrics over the crowd, lips acting on their own. He doesn’t want to drown out the band with his horrible, off-kilter tone, but as he looks around, as sees everyone else doing the same, it’s lost in the throng, and he sings even louder. He throws his head up, and down, and over again with the bodies in the crowd when the song hits the primordial cadence of the breakdown.

_Go easy on_   
_Go easier on_   
_Go easy on_   
_Go easier on_

There’s sweat, and there’s smoke, and there’s the world in between, and it’s just him and the decadence of this moment. He steals just a glance, to the man on his right, completely forgotten for a little while. Within the life of the music, when they join eyes, they’re both smiling.

_Finally I found you_   
_It’s not getting any easier_   
_Far away from everything and everyone_   
_It’s not getting easier_   
_The final straw came when in the end it didn’t get easier_

He doesn’t believe in god, or a deity, or RA9, or a higher order of being, but right there? In that moment? When they pass that look between them, and the share that smile? He thinks he can feel a ghost on his palm. A lingering scent of whisky, and wood ushers him on, as the song carries further. Maybe it’s just the venue air around them. But it’s a feeling, a thought that swells within him, telling him ‘it’s ok, Connor. Things are going to be ok. You’re allowed to move on.’

Nate winks at him, and for the first time since they’ve met, he throws up a laugh, lips parted, shining from the inside out in the lamplight, glad for the Detective’s insistent cajoling that he let himself go. It’s that look.

The look that Nathan was chasing.

Beyond death, and mortality, and the grey river beyond.

In that one moment?

Everything is worth it. Nothing else matters but that look. No matter what comes to pass.

Connor whips back around, giddy, overcome, radiant, sunburst baby, the brightest thing in the whole neoned room, yelling as loud as his mechanical lungs can take him.

_Finally I found you_   
_It’s not getting any easier_   
_Far away from everything and everyone_   
_It’s not getting easier_   
_The final straw came when in the end it didn’t get easier_

Something breaks out from within him. It rips, and claws, and tears through his chest, right through his heart, his lungs, those mechanical things pumping with air as fast as they can fill, to the brown of his eyes, and Connor feels like he could weep. Of joy, of sadness, of grief, of all of the moments that he once cherished, now gone, and the divine sublimity coursing through him. It’s everything, it’s nothing, it’s small, and it’s gargantuan all the same.

_A few of the cracked little pieces of him, held together with paper clips and string, come back together again._

The song ends, and he sets back on his boot heels.

He feels incandescent. In the light, and the glow, and the lingering taste of his favorite song on his tongue, and the lift of the great, white release from within him.

The band calls out ‘fuck yeah, Detroit,’ grinning towards the masses below, and the crowd cheers again, waiting on baited breath as the band shifts gears and shuffles the stage around. Connor looks towards Nathan again.

He needs to tell him thank you. For the moment he’s just had. For the invitation to be himself. For a friend at his side, just for a little while.

He’s about to say this is the best night he’s had in a long, long while, when he spots something, just as his vision glances that top line of piled silver hair.

At the back of the room, towards the vicinity of the bar, a face registers against the Detroit Police Department Warrents and Arrests catalog.

Gregorio Tupickow.

Target acquired, it seems.

Nathan’s saying something, trying to battle the flourish of chatter and whistling in the crowd around them, and Connor nods towards the door. Nate stalls mid-sentence, raising an eyebrow, when Connor opens their internal channel back up in the corner of his vision.

_‘Suspect is at the bar, 4:00 behind you.’_

Excuse me?

That’s not correct.

There’s no way that the completely made up, completely untrue, ridiculous scenario he came up with to get Connor out of the door, could possibly be resulting in. . .

He turns around, and his systems register the scan, too.

“Well, that’s not supposed to fucking happen.”

Thankfully, Connor doesn’t hear him.

He’s already breaking through the crowd, back in Detective mode, gently pushing his way through so he doesn’t cause suspicion while they hone in on the prize. Nate shakes his head, gets the stardust and the dazzle of that burning smile out of his brain, and goes to follow him, wondering if the night could have possibly be ruined in any less ridiculous of a way.

But two paces ahead, as Connor leads him on, it’s not anger, or frustration, or disappointment on his face. It’s the sun, and a wicked little curve at the corner of his mouth, and the rush of thirium in his veins because the chase is _exactly what he loves about being a detective_. And honestly? Right then, with his favorite band behind him, and his head clear, and a live wire of synthetic adrenaline coursing through him?

He feels like he could attack and dethrone a god if he wanted to. Nothing, not Tupickow, or grief, or a ghost of a man, or this past fucking year. . . Not anything else can take that feeling away.

And right there along with it?

He’s glad that Nate is the one there with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, if anyone wants my take on the Playlist from last chapter for ‘Connie’s Best Hits.’
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3ymzB1Q4qLxTti3he39Qvz?si=u9U9vxadQjyVHnOY7YRZow


	10. Pony Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT 09/30: Re-worked the tags for this bad boy because they were a gortang mess.
> 
> Strap in lads, it’s a 7k doozie.
> 
> For the final time, I promise, there’s an associated song noted by the ♬(1) Symbol. Link to the song on Spotify below, just one!
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/track/7lGOFEVWK0jzpLMFuR4ANh?si=QwvoGr7PSzKNUzK1ACU9GA

The Detectives snake their way towards the bar, bass and guitar still thumping in the background, and they open their internal channel yet again to communicate silently. None of that ear-piece, squealing when you cross the streams, deafening crap you get on an op as a human.

The innumerable perks of being an android.

They quickly move to the side of the group, and make a beeline for a tall pylon in the middle of the back parlor for cover.

Nate is still in a state of slight disbelief from the sheer impossibility that the perp actually showed up, of all places in Detroit, exactly where they happened to be. He feels the need to ask Anthony if they put some kind of future telling crap in him, because the situation is downright spooky. And, of course, it was the one suspect, even back when he was still Hank, that they never seemed to be able to nail, no matter how hard they tried.

So despite the original intention for the evening, an even wilder layer of comeraderie was lingering below the surface; the dynamic duo, back at it again, about to nail one crooked, fucked, son-of-a-bitch, after more than a year tracking him down.

Some small thing inside of him wishes they could be properly celebrating after it's done. With the full knowledge that a year's work of worth had finally paid off. . . the old duo, that is.

But evil was evil, and celebrations or no, it didn't make it any less important that they didn't fuck things up here, and now.

As Tupickow's face looms closer through the smoke filled room, Nate feels the same, sub-zero, steely resolve as Connor settle over him. Because at the end of the day, this was the shit that set both of their thirium-filled veins on fire. The chase. The showdown.

Pistols drawn, 'O.K. Corrall,' life and death.

_Pony up._

Connor’s voice sounds in his head. Determined, piercing, hackles raised, while they briefly tuck behind the pillar, out of sight. They need to find exactly the right angle, and both of them know it. It takes just about everything Nate has in him to not burst from the shadows, and just give the asshole the full brunt of his robot powered fist to snap his smarmy little neck. Somehow, he refrains, and he feels antsy beyond words.

Connor looks down at him through the slightly shimmering air, a bloodthirsty glint in his eyes. Usually he was the calm one during these gigs.

Since when did he get so volatile in the middle of an op?

‘ _There’s a smoker’s porch towards the back, Southern wall, and the door at the front. I pulled the schematics for the building this morning, and those should be the only two exits. I crossed referenced them with the most recent inspection in the city municipal database for historic places.'_

Connor smirks, daggers and knives.

' _We should be able to cover him no matter where he goes_.'

Nate's fingertips feel electrified.

Oh Connor, you ace-detective you. Covering all of your bases. Being the most attentive cop he has ever seen in twenty-something years.

Maybe it's just the thrill of the chase running through his veins that's getting him all worked up, making him ignore the tiny version of himself screaming 'stop, we didn't come back just to get all hot and bothered over him again,' but for some reason? Right now?

That shit is hot as _hell_ , and Nate doesn't care who knows it.

Not that he's going to do anything about it.

**‘Right. It looks like it’s just him, that creepy seven foot tall bald fuck with the snake tattoo he’s always got lurking around, and some android chick. Guess it’s a hot date.’**

Nate wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, unable to keep himself from interjecting a quip, which earns him a smack on the arm. Connor nods towards the group fifteen feet away, attempting to hide the fact that he found it humorous amid the serious situation.

_‘Stop it, we’re not going to get this opportunity again.'_

His face durns a shade darker, a grim line settling in the corners of his mouth.

_'You haven’t worked this guy before. He’s more than quick. He's slimy. He will hurt you if he can, and he won’t let himself be caught so easily.’_

Right. Connor thinks he's completely new to this song and dance.

But oh, he knew alright. Hank had been thrown down three flights of stairs back in February when he was still flabby and fragile, and fractured his wrist and occipital bone, so yeah. He knew.

He wanted revenge just as bad as he knew Connor did for the incident. But this is the best chance yet, even including before, and now he's got the body to make it happen with the highest possible outcome.

Good thing he could clock almost thirty miles an hour from a dead sprint, thanks to Anthony.

Mental note: send kid thank you card for the whole lower half of his body, ass included.

 **‘I’ll take point and chase if he bolts.** ’

Connor looks at him questioningly when he suggests the plan, still unsure of his ability, and not wanting to waste this chance. Nate also suspects that he's about to make 'the comment.' You know, 'I'm the most advanced model CyberLife had ever blah, blah, blah. . .’

He tries to sound convincing.

‘ **Look. I’m fast, ok? And you’re better equipped to deal with the big guy because you've got more raw strength, so I’ll do the Linebacker tango, alright?’**

Connor hears him, but he still doesn't know. That's the problem. He still doesn't know anything, at all, about Nathan's origins. His physical parameters. It wasn't information he was willing to give out. His whole background was hazy, explained as 'a Greek fucking tragedy, and not something you want to hear about, and not something I'm willing to live through again,' so Connor had conceded for the sake of respect, assuming the worst. He knew what it was like to have a rough time. 

That much about him, if nothing else, he understood from day one.

But in that moment, he wishes he did know his capabilities, his strengths and weaknesses. He could try asking again, later, but something tells him that the android simply won't budge.

He just wasn't willing to talk about the life he lived, or the android he was before moving to Detroit, and becoming part of the DPD.

He doesn't even know his model number. Every search always comes up empty in the Belle Isle database for android production, meaning he's likely a privately ordered model, file secret. Legal red-tape.

Perhaps he could ask Markus to implore CyberLife to circumvent a private order blackout. No ulterior motive behind the question, at all. . . just, at the very least, so he could know the physical limitations of his abilities, and they could coordinate more appropriately. That wouldn't divulge anything about his personal life. . .

He makes a mental note to contact Markus later. . . But for now, they'd just have to make do with the fact that it was too risky to bet on the unknown.

_‘Nathan, will all due respect, I believe that my chassis is a more athletically capable model. I'm all around one of the most advanced models CyberLife has designed, and. . .’_

Yup, there was the tagline.

Behind them, Tupickow reaches over the wood lip of the cantina, and smacks the bartender on the face a little before he’s handed two beers, turning to leave. They’re running out of their window before he slinks too far into the crowd and they run the risk of potential collateral.

But Nate feels confident with the body that Anthony built him, and by god, he's going to do what he came back from the dead for.

His job.

 **‘No time to argue, just follow my lead.** ’

Nate picks off of the pillar, telling Connor to go for a pincer move while they idly sip their beverages in front of the bar. Connor sighs, frustrated, still unsure, still wishing he had a more concrete confidence. But things have already started, so he makes a move to cover the path towards the front exit, while Nathan creeps closer and covers the rear. The two men banter with the android between them, and they move further in.

“You believe that piece of shit fuckhole wanted me, _me_ , to pay five fuckin’ dollars _each_ for these piece of shit beers?”

“It’s a goddamn _tragedy_ , Greg.”

“You said it.”

"No respect outta people these days, man."

"Ain't that the fuckin' truth."

He turns towards the female android who hasn't said a word. A blond haired AJ700 who looks scared, and uneasy as Tupickow tightly grabs her forearm in his filthy fingers.

“Excuse me, sweetheart, I couldn’t quite hear you. You think I’m _supposed_ to run around like everyone else, payin’ for shit, nobody givin’ me my fuckin’ dues?”

“No, Gregorio, I’m sorry.”

"Oh, you're _sorry_ , eh?"

He digs his nails in deep, far more than necessary, and she bites her lip while the ring at her forehead turns scarlet. Nate bristles, watching from three feet away, trending from antsy, to irate, to royally pissed while he hurts her in front of him. He feels sick just standing there, letting it happen. He looks for Connor, who's still fighting to get around a group of women huddled together, taking photos, and wishes he would hurry the hell up.

“Please stop, you’re hurting me.”

“Oh, I’m hurtin’ ya? How you bout you, you’re tryin’ to ruin my good fuckin’ time, hon.”

Nate curses to himself while Connor still tries to get an angle. They're running out of time. He knows what those hands can do.

“Remember how long it took you to get outta the chop shop _last_ time you tried to ruin my good—“

He squeezes her wrist, blue beginning to seep through the tattooed fingers at her hand. Nate's thirium cycle jumps fifteen paces as his blood begins to boil.

“Fuckin’—“

She tries to tear her hand away, and a bit of the synth-skin pulls, blue and white left behind in the wake. Come ON, Connor, get your ass in. . .

He's still stuck, even getting pushed back into the throng as they surge in for the upbeat song back at the stage

Fuck it.

 _Fuck_ this.

 _Fuck_ this asshole.

“TI—“

“HEY!”

Tupickow pauses, nails under skin, hand dripping, blue-blood on the floor. He turns, snarling, a death glare adorning him, homing in on the voice that belongs to a soon to be dead man.

His eyes turn into saucers when he sees Nate’s fist barreling towards him with all of the brute, synthetically enhanced strength he can muster without snapping his pathetic fucking neck.

His cheek rebounds into red, teeth crack within his jaw. He nearly swallows his tongue into the ale-sour mess of his mouth, and he falls to the floor in a crumpled heap. The AJ700 yelps, and backs away, disappearing. His lackey is immediately on Nate the moment he realizes they’ve been jumped, stepping over the body on the floor, trying to slug Nate with a sucker punch of his own. But he anticipates the overly-telegraphed movement, and crouches low, putting his whole weight into a full-body tackle to his stomach.

He barely moves.

Even with Nate pushing up as hard as he can, he's not finding much purchase against the five-hundred pounds of pure, pissed off meathead. Nate’s heels are scraping at the ground, soles slipping, dust, debris, a little thirium compromising his position. The brute smirks, and brings his fists down on Nate’s back, smacking down, _hard_ , and he falls to the ground.

Connor swears, wishing he had brought that gun and smuggled it in anyway, tearing back towards them as fast as he can before Nathan gets himself killed, the _fool_. What happened to ‘you get the big guy?’ He should have waited, he was almost through before. His heart went out to the AJ as much as his did, but immediately coming out swinging wasn’t the plan. Certainly not what he would have done.

This is precisely the reason why they lost him the prior time, because Hank had saw it fit to barge in, guns blazing, pissed beyond all holy hell while Connor wanted to lay, and wait. Would it kill his partners to find a modicum of patience? Right as he finally breaks through, Nate gets back up, glaring death, and determination out of his eyes, a fevered kind of thing.

Connor rakes his eyes down the towering man's body while Nate tries to get an angle on him, looking for an opportunity. A small crowd forms around them, egging them on, jeering, drunk, thinking it’s just an alcohol-infused bar fight transpiring before them.

He quickly tries to find something, anything that can shift the polarity of the fight, because even though Nathan’s rash decision was foolhardy, and they’re going to have to have a little chat about strategy, he’s not about to let his neck get snapped in two from idiocy.

His analytics pinpoint a slight hesitation when the brute swings a sideswipe, a minor shift of gravity from the right foot to the left, indicating some prior injury and weakness in the limb. Connor hones in. If he can just hit it at this one precise direction. . .

The limb shifts back, stance open, calf exposed.

Gotcha.

Connor rounds, raises his Doc Marten, thirty-two degree angle, and kicks all the way down, right onto the soleus muscle, left leg. It comes down _hard_.

Very, _very_ hard.

Old Connor would have perhaps thought it a tad bit rude to just go out and permanently maim the poor fellow's appendage. But new Connor? Two years worth of DPD bullshit Connor?

This was personal.

And he’d learned a few tricks, from a cranky old cop, who always used to say: 'when the fight seems dirty, aim even lower.'

And what was the fun in the whole thing if Nathan was the only one expressing himself so colorfully with his fists?

The lackey screams, and beneath Connor’s boot, the flesh, and the sinew, and the white bone of his fibula separates entirely from the lateral malleolus, forced into two, breaking through the skin and jean fibers, and out the other side with a sickening 'pop.'

“MOTHERFUCKER!”

He drops like a shit ton of bricks, fainting from the unbridled pain while he cries, guitar from the stage barely drowning out the moment of sheer gore and terror. The little crowd that was jeering around them jumps back, mortified, finally getting the message that it’s not just some petty dispute going down. Nate jumps out of the way while he crashes to the floor, standing on the opposite side of the half-ton musclebound freak, Tupickow’s limp body hidden by the enormous man. The band hits an interlude behind them, and the noise abates enough to speak again.

"Hell fucking _yes_ , Connor, that’s the way to do it!’"

Connor glares at him slightly, still unamused with his earlier actions.

"You're lucky I was able to get that angle, Detective. That was idiotic to simply approach them and swing away, what the hell were you _thinking_?!"

Nate scoffs, defensive, because he'd gotten the bad guy, hadn't he?

"I was _thinking_ that he was a total piece of shit, and his face was completely open, and I was getting pretty goddamn tired of him physically abusing that AJ, so I did something about it."

"No, you completely threw all tactics out of the window and exposed yourself to unnecessary harm. You said you weren’t a good match for the underling. You failed to apprehend the secondary suspect while you performed a brash, grandiose display of strength."

"I had the big guy on the ropes, I just slipped!"

Connor sighs, exasperated. Why did his partners always have to be so reckless? He was sick and tired of bad things happening, or almost happening, to people he cared about.

"You almost seriously injured yourself, Nathan."

"Hey, did we forget the most important thing here, I fuckin’ got Tupickow, thank you very much, he’s right—"

They both look down, temples red, to the bodies beside them.

Body.

Singular.

He’s escaped off the floor in the wake of their little spat, splitting after the luck of five-hundred pounds of cover falling right beside him. Tupickow's already at the back of the room, shoving past concert goers with a bloody trail steadily streaming from his messed up face while he flees. His thirium-slick hand is at the door, turning the nob, and he throws himself onto the smoker’s porch and the open back lot beyond.

There he goes again.

“FUCK!”

They both shout at the same time, taking off towards the door side by side, bristling. Nate tries to run ahead past Connor, no way in hell he’s going to be bested by the murderous little creep a second time. But Connor grabs his jacket, and pushes him aside, a look of anger, and worry, and panic all thrown in at him.

"Move, and let me do our job correctly!"

"HEY!"

It’s no use, and Connor bursts out of the door, forcing Nate to fall back as he shoves past. Tupickow is already down in the lot, weaving between the parked cars, towards the flat, empty lot next to the theatre. Some long demolished hospital. A thousand yards of flat pasture. Just like always, he’s fast. _Ridiculously_ fast, long legs pumping as quick as they can as he surges well beyond at a rate that no average cop could dream of keeping up with.

Connor chases after him, clearing the two flights of stairs in one fell swoop, dropping to the concrete below with a somersault finish. He immediately works his legs to the limits of their capacity, trying to gain ground, as fast as he can.

Nate bursts out of the venue behind him, and clutches the railing, watching below. He's angry, and pissed at himself, and stupid. A stupid, asshole, absolute _idiot_ who’s just done the exact same kind of blockheaded thing that ruined their chances a year ago, and it’s all his fucking fault yet again.

What about his friggin' New Body resolution?

What was the whole goddamn point of all of his posturing, and ‘oh, I’m so good now, I’ll do better, i promise,’ if when the time came to REALLY step the fuck up, he just resorted to his old bullshit? 

Come on, Nate.

Come on, you _idiot_.

He grits his plastic teeth, synthetic jaw squealing, chassis biting back against the pressure while he watches Connor go.

He’s hauling ass, lining up the perfect lay of the land to get to the little weasel as soon as possible, but. . .

He’s not fast enough.

They’re going to lose him.

Again.

Nate grips at the railing, splinters of wood digging deep into his palms, precious seconds flying by.

No. 

Not like this, you smarmy little asshole.

 _Not today_.

Nate rakes his eyes below him, from his partner, to the shrinking man in the distance, calculating, crunching the numbers.

You wanna put a cyborg brain and superhero speed in to the old ghost of Hank fucking Anderson? Well, it’s time he used those superpowers Anthony promised him, people.

Saddle up, you old cowboy.

//;CALCULATETRAJECTORY-  
-Suspect 43.9 feet away, maximum speed of 24.88 miles per hour sprinting, obstacles occluding current speed, distance between Detective Connor and subject increasing at a rate of. . .

There's no time.

He throws himself off the blue porch railing, crashing down hard onto the hood of a Mercedes below, crunching the entire sheet of metal into a concave mess of glass and paint, before taking off across the rooftops in the sea of vehicles towards the body in the distance.

His feet barely touch the roof surfaces, before catapulting him forward again.

More. 

_More_. 

He tells those million dollar processors inside him to put CyberLife's money where their mouth is, and give him _more_.

Two more cars and he’s reached the ground, Connor and Tupickow well beyond the gate, into the bare lot beyond.

Time to go, old man.

 _Show your partner what you're really made of_.

He throws out those biker boots, foot after the other, impossibly fast. Impossibly fevered. He’d clocked out at 26.5 miles per hour back at CyberLife just two months ago, practically Olympian. It wasn’t fast enough. He needed more.

“COME ON, COME ON!”

He grits through his teeth, his hair flies out of that loose little bun, streaking wildly around him, and he’s almost to Connor’s side. Tupickow’s got another forty yards before he hits the smattering of back alleys at the Eastern edge of the city. Now or never.

"On your right, Con!"

Nate jumps over a concrete foundation, clearing it entirely, hand splayed out beneath him, and he’s finally overtaken him. He would have considered doing some cheesy fucking wink and a smile when he passed, because the opportunity was just too good, if only he weren’t so royally pissed off. At himself, and Tupickow, and the fact that he’s gone and ruined the whole goddamn evening, and he’s definitely going to get that blood on his shirt now that he’ll have to beat the little bastard into an unmoving, disfigured pulp.

Connor’s lost his beanie to the fray a long time ago, and when his partner surges past, hellbound, snarling, he throws a red-tinted ‘what the hell?’ In Nate’s general direction.

He flinches, barely, unbelieving what he’s seeing, as his partner flies on past, and gains more ground than he has in the past hundred yards. 

‘I’m fast,' he'd said. Back at the bar.

Yeah, _right_.

He was absolutely unbelievable.

Nathan was unreal. Inconceivable. Irrepressible. Far and away a good five miles an hour faster than he was, if he calculated it, and there was no way his chassis had anything else to give. 

Just what in the hell model _was_ he?

Beyond him, almost fifty yards ahead, Nate closes the distance, and Connor slows only when he sees him fly forward, and tackle Tupickow to the craggy soil below them, no holds barred.

He quickly shoves his face into the dirt, flipping him around, breaking his arm around his back, grinding him further into the clay.

Nathan leans down close, and says something low that Connor can't hear from the distance while he slows to a walk, exhausted. Tupickow suddenly whips his head to the side, eyes wide, and his brow furrows. but his mouth is hidden by the side of Nathan’s arm holding him while he talks though the already mangled mess of his mouth. Connor's still a good twenty yards away when Tupickow begins laughing, crazily, like he’s lost his entire mind. Nate begins to punch Tupickow square in the jaw, breaking all of the teeth in his face, sinking them in, and he accidentally bites down on his tongue. It's dangling from his mouth, swollen two sizes, when he finally passes out cold again after punch number three.

Connor honestly wants the pleasure of breaking this serial murderer's face just as much as Nate seems to be enjoying it. But when he finally reaches them, he pulls Nathan off to stop, setting Tupickow up so he doesn't choke to death on his own blood. They step away, the body below them certainly down this time as he bleeds onto the sparse grass, still. Connor takes a cursory inventory of the disheveled form, making sure he was still breathing, because he can’t wait to see the see the bastard sealed away behind bars, back at the station.

He sends a quick message to the operator on call, giving out their coordinates for an arrest and pick-up while Nate wipes at the vague patterns of red that decorate his face. Connor still feels shocked from the previous display, looking Nathan up and down for any further signs of injury, or harm, or indication how he'd just done what he had.

Nate’s chest is heaving, still burning from the chase, and Connor spots a smattering of dark crimson, running from the collar to the navel of his shirt. Ruined.

Beneath the cold, biting air, and the vague city lights, he starts to crack up. 

They did it.

_They goddamn did it._

And his shirt is ruined, just like he'd said he didn't want it to be.

The whole situation is entirely fucked, and final, and weird, and had he really just landed this killer, after one of the best nights of his short life? Connor can't do anything but laugh while he looks from Tupickow, to Nate doubled over, to his shirt, in giddy disbelief.

“You. You’ve got. . .”

Connor points down, barely able to form words, towards the stain that’s never going to come out. 

Nate mumbles a short 'what, what're you looking at,' before standing back up, and slowly following the line that Connor's finger is making.

. . .

“God DAMN it! I actually fucking liked this shirt. Of course the one time I don’t wear some stupid, p—“

Nate stops, immediately, comment almost slipping, lost in the elation and exhaustion of the moment.

_‘Of course the one time I don’t wear some stupid, pattered, shirt, I ruin something that I actually look decent in.’_

Fuck.

That was close.

That was one, _single_ syllable, too close.

He keeps his eyes lowered, terrified, mortified. He couldn’t have noticed, could he? Please, please not right now. Not tonight, don’t fucking ruin this night. Not _his_ night, not after—

“I wouldn’t call your normal attire a ‘piece of shit,’ Nathan, you usually look rather decent. Though I’m sure Tina would be more than happy to know you’ll have to show off some other radical choices to her, next time we go plainclothes. She seemed quite entertained by the whole ensemble. It did work particularly well for the event, I'll admit. You certainly looked like an angry, misunderstood hipster while the whole concert watched you attempt your fistfight.”

Nate looks up, and there’s not a trace of the anger he’s dreading on Connor’s face. Instead, there’s a little half-smile, hands hooked in his front pockets, looking at him, eyes saying ‘you are the most ridiculous android I have ever known. You just stopped the man I’ve been hunting for a year, from a dead, Olympic sprint, and here you are, worried about ruining your clothes. Who the fuck even are you? What a ridiculous thing you are. Thank you.’

The fear slips right through him, like silk, smooth.

. . .

Wait, did he say ‘attempted’ fight?

“Did you miss the part where I cold cocked old Greg here and he dropped like a shit-covered stone?"

“Oh, no, I saw perfectly, your 'sucker punch.' And I particularly enjoyed the way your boots flailed on the ground when you couldn’t move the ignorant side-kick a single inch.”

Nate scoffs, Connor laughs.

They feel like partners, real partners, for the first time.

Behind them, three squad cars flash their reds and blues, slowly making their way across the empty field, and Connor flags them down. He reaches down, smacking Tupickow a few times on the cheek to ensure he's really out of it, before an officer steps out and clasps his wrists together with a pair of handcuffs.

They stalk over, immediately knowing who it is, and start to smack Connor on the back with a 'damn, guys, look at RK. Look's like you're finally back, huh?'

Connor shakes his head, flattered, indeed feeling like some semblance of his old self again, but undeserving of this particular praise.

"No, actually, it wasn't me."

They raise their eyebrows amongst the light-show, and Connor gestures towards Nathan, who's tapping on the glass of the squad car as Tupickow slowly comes to, snapping at the window pane.

He looks back, and does a double-take, realizing that everyone's staring at him, and giving him the credit for a job well done.

More than well.

Good. 

He's done good.

Connor's smiling at him. That same lopsided, goofy, unrepentant grin he used to have all the time. But it isn't for Hank Anderson. It isn't for the evening, lost in a fantastic moment. 

It's for Nathan Cole. His partner. His friend.

The three cops pack up, take statements for their logs, and sidle off, Tupickow bleeding all over the back seat. Incoherent, sputtering, nary a coherent syllable escaping from his mangled face. He won’t be able to speak for at least a month, by the look of it. 

He and Connor watch, side by side, as the line of cars drive off towards Mack Avenue, and down to the station beyond.

They stand there, still, breathing, the two of them. They both like doing that. Breathing, that is, even when they're not talking. It makes them feel more alive.

"Well, I don't know about you, but I'm fucking exhausted."

Connor snorts, finally moving, and they begin the long walk to the Behemoth.

Back inside, they slump down into the cracked, shitty bucket seats, and breathe together in silence for a good, solid minute. Eventually, Connor finds the keys in his pocket again, and the Ford sputters to life, slowly pulling out of the lot.

"Where do you live, Nathan?"

He's so goddamn exhausted, and elated, and just savoring the pride welled up within him, that Nate almost misses the question.

"Sorry, what?"

"I said, where do you live? I'll drop you off."

Oh.

His first thought is to tell him to point the thing towards Michigan Avenue, and the house, and the dog, and invite him inside for a drink.

Another life, Nate. Another life.

"885 West Canfield, building three. Top floor. Number 1041."

"You got it."

Connor turns it around, and they take off, coordinates in his head. He estimates approximately nine minutes to their destination. Feeling like that cheeky little bastard that he is, he turns towards Nate, and wiggles his eyebrows towards the radio once again.

"Two in one day? Did I miss an occasion, or something?"

"No, we just have enough time for me to one-up whatever you choose, is all."

They laugh together, rolling their eyes at the same time. Connor keeps smiling, thinking about how he wouldn't even know if it was an occasion in the first place since the Detective hasn’t told him. He decides to do a baby step, and just ask for a simple, plain old date. The most important one, but the simplest.

"When is your liberation date, Nathan?"

He pauses, hand stilling above the song selection, biting his lip, not expecting the question. 

"You don't need to tell me anything specific, I'd just like to know, for the sake of it."

For all the planning he and Fowler had done for a cover, and as hard as he'd tried to avoid divulging anything to Connor, the world's most attentive detective, he couldn't just avoid this shit forever. Something like a liberation date was incredibly easy to remember, surely he can't fuck it up if he just makes something up on the spot.

But liberation dates were supposed to be special. Significant. The anniversary of every android acknowledging their deviancy, for the very first time. He. . . didn't have one, did he? Skipped right over the whole concept. But he's supposed to, since he's just some 'regular old android.' 

He tries to think while he scrolls. They typically weren't a manufacturing date, and he's not about to give the biggest hint in the universe of 'oh yeah, October 23rd, coincidentally the day your old partner died. Did I mention my name used to be Hank Anderson? My bad.'

So that's out.

He sees a song, from one of those bands after 2003 that he'd lambasted just hours ago, but it's one he actually, secretly loves. He just so happens to know all the lyrics. It's something cathartic, something with a double-kick, something aggressive, something that feels as wild as the night they've just had, and long enough that it'll completely undermine Connor's plan to outdo him, because he can still be a little deviant, even if he isn't one.

And it was written after 2003, just to give him a playful middle finger.

(1)

He punches the selection, and the guitar slowly builds out of the speakers while he thinks.

Usually the first day you feel truly alive. . . Hmm. . .

_I ain't no good_  
_And I live by the wood_  
_They say I ain't bad_  
_I'm the best that I've had_

There's November 5th, 2038. First day he met Connor, in Jimmy's bar. The little shit coercing him into leaving by buying him another drink with that cheeky little grin. Even with the dead body, that was a good day. Great, even, in hindsight. But no. 

There's November 11th, same year. That's the day that Connor saved him, in CyberLife tower. The first time that he'd felt that stabbing, aching little thing in his chest, that burned him from the inside out before he knew what it even really was. It's the day he started to love Connor. The very first time. But still, there were so many more days afterward that burned even brighter. It still wasn't what he wanted to pick.

As he listens to the music, arm out the window, Connor tapping away at the steering wheel next to him, he glances down. Connor's right arm is resting gently on the stick-shift, center console, those lithe, tanned limbs curving gracefully down. He's taken back to this one afternoon. 

They're in the car, and they're singing as loud as they can, heads banging in the breeze while they scream into the traffic around them. There's not a care in the world, except them, and the music, and the sarcasm they have as they tell each other that they can't sing worth a goddamn.

They'd ridden in the car a million times before, sung just like this. It was an ordinary day, after an ordinary shift, but that particular car ride. . .

He remembers seeing Connor's hand there, just next to his, where he’s sitting in the present. He'd wondered, while their voices rose higher, and they laughed themselves to crying from being so incredibly horrible, what it would feel like to take that hand into his own, while they sang in that shitty old car, together. No looming mortality, no thought of death in his mind. 

Just of life, and how he wished, more than anything, that he wasn’t who he was. And that they could live theirs together, somehow.

That's the day.

"May 15th. That's probably the first day I really felt alive."

Connor nods, and the song begins to shift into something else around them. Connor doesn’t remember the date, from that one particular car ride, even if he’d felt the same exact way. Why?

Every car ride had been like that for him. He’d stopped counting the days a long while ago, because it hurt too much to realize it would never happen when he rode them out in that cracked bucket seat.

He doesn't ask anything more, simply glad that the Detective had finally decided to share something about him, the date not bearing any significance when associated with Nathan Cole. 

He starts to tap out the guitar riff on the dashboard, and Nate lifts his eyebrows when he sees it.

"Oh, so you do like the music I pick, don't you? Who’s got 'good taste’ now?"

Connor throws his head back, smiling ear to ear, a completely unabashed, shit eating grin. Oh, the poor android. He has no idea. Not a clue.

He didn’t listen to the playlist, so he doesn’t know.

This is his territory. His holy mountain. Something he knows from the inside, and out. Something that Hank wouldn't put on the radio, in the horrible little car, in a million, billion years. But Connor?

"Nathan. . ."

He begins, staring him straight in the eye, and his hand slowly reaches out to the dial to turn it all, all, all the way to the top.

". . .I love this song."

The speaker starts growling, reeling. Chaos, tessellation, heavy metal, swirling a dark incantation and into the night air, and Connor begins to sing every single word, at the top of his lungs.

_Terrestrial fire ascending from underground_  
_Godspeed divine so we control the mound_  
_Shape shifter spirits whisper_  
_Guide me through this black sorcery_

Well, what do you know?

Nate looks on, disbelief, and what can he do? He knows all the words himself.

He just joins in with him.

How could he help himself, in the middle of the city, in this shitty little car, with the most ridiculous, surprising, enthralling android in the entire world by his side, while they drive on and on?

How could he not?

And they scream, as loud as they dare, cars turning heads, lights flashing by, doesn't matter. Connor starts laughing when Nate tries to pitch out the melody, so close to getting it, his unexpectedly smooth timbre a pleasant surprise as it comes forth from him. Connor still can't hit the notes quite right, but he's been practicing for almost two years now. Somehow, when they both join in, it just works, and the harmony they manage to form only makes the whole song better.

It's just them, in the Behemoth, promising duet that'll need some work in future car rides if they're going to get it right, and while both of them sing?

There isn't another person, live or dead, who they'd rather be with, right then, right there. This is their moment. Not a ghosts. Not fate's. Not some divine intervention.

It's theirs.

Connor feels lucky that he’s getting the chance to do this again, with someone else he cares for, with a song he’s wanted to put on that radio for long, long while.

They're out of breath, and out of voice, and Connor swears there's a little staticky crackle at the back of his throat while he pulls into the apartment lot off West Canfield. 

"Well, that was loud."

Connor grins while Nathan opens the door, and steps into the cold. He turns around when he's out, stretching down low to hang himself off the window-sill in the passenger side door where the window's still down.

"Thanks for the ride, Connor."

His silver hair catches the waning glow of the evening moon. The incandescence on his face stretches all the way across, from the crooked nose, to the phantasmically grey eyes, to the strong, tanned brow. He's smiling underneath. He's silver, and gold, and the sun, and the moon.

It's that look.

The one he gives to Anthony.

Something small, so very, impossibly small, blossoms within Connor's chest. The tiniest little seed, growing in the warmth, and the brilliance of the sun that is Nathan Cole's smile as he looks in from that window. He doesn't realize it's there yet, but nonetheless, it's in him.

"Any time, Nate."

He pats the inside of the crumbled upholstery, gives a small wave, and throws his jacket over his shoulder while he turns to go. Connor watches his back, and maybe, just once, the tight jeans below them, the whole way through the lot, until he disappears behind the trimmed hedges and the lobby beyond. He drives off.

He pulls off of West Canfield, turns the Behemoth East, and drives home in silence, not needing anything else to fill the space of an already incredible night. So unexpectedly, absolutely, wonderful.

He's needed this for so long.

He's still smiling, thinking about Nathan, and that look, and the absolutely bizarre chase from an hour before, when he pulls into his own parking space, and begins the track inside.

He throws off his shoes, the Doc Martens, and the grey bleached jeans. The yellow patterned flannel that, maybe, doesn't actually look too bad when he thinks about it, and lays down on the couch with Sumo at his side.

He feels more than fine. 

His mind wanders on.

_'May 15th. That's probably the first day I really felt alive.'_

After tonight, seeing what they can do together? He's got to know more about his model. They can do so much good. This is only the tip of the iceberg. If he knows Nathan's strengths, his weaknesses, he can give him the time that he needs to decide what to tell Connor about himself, and he can make sure that they continue to work as real, honest to god partners. In the best way they can.

He thinks about messaging Markus, but ends up calling him instead, hoping he's not interrupting his evening. He picks up by the third ring.

 _’Connor, this is a pleasant Thursday night surprise, how are you_?’

**‘Markus! It's good to hear your voice. I apologize for the length of time between this and my last call. Things have been. . . chaotic, this past year. . . I'll go ahead and say that I'm sorry if I've neglected our friendship.’**

_‘Don't worry about it Connor, you know I'm always here. Doesn't matter if you don't talk to me for a century. Promise.’_

**’I hate to immediately ask something of you, but I was wondering if you could do something, as a favor? For work.’**

_’Depends on what it is, but I'll help if I can_.’

**‘I'd appreciate if you could request an android production profile from CyberLife International. I’m not sure of the model number, but you should include the name Nathan Cole for the individual. I surmise there would only be one iteration, a privately commissioned model. I don't need to know any history, just the construction. It will help immensely with things at the station if I can understand what the line's capabilities are.’**

_‘Well, we're still wading through red tape up to our eyeballs after the incident with Nines last year. CyberLife won't do anything unless it's perfectly filed, to the T, all protocol. I can file an injunction on behalf of Jericho, but it'll take a bit of time to clear through.’_

**‘Perfectly understandable, take the time you need**.’

_‘Don't hold your breath, Connor, if it’s urgent. If they do agree to send it over, it'll take at least a week. Maybe two. That seems to be standard nowadays.‘_

Connor hums to himself in the dark, thinking. The station is about to explode with small, petty, busy-work crimes now that Christmas is in a few days. The busiest time of the year. They'll be so swamped in petty-theft and paperwork that it's no rush. Maybe he won't even need it. They're about to spend a week in DPD hell, and it's the old adage that if you make it through, you either want to strangle your partner to death, or become his best friend by the end of it.

Here's to hoping for friendship.

 **‘I appreciate the help. Just send it along when you can**.’

_‘Absolutely. And, Connor? I hope you're doing better nowadays. It certainly seems like it, after talking.’_

The little seed glows, just a fraction. Light as air. He feels more rooted than before, even just a week ago. He feels like there's a road to be walked down. A new path in front of him. He doesn't feel the need to turn around, waiting for a pair of headlights, on a horrible red car, that are never going to come.

 **‘I'm better than I have been in a very long time**.‘

Markus hums on his end, satisfied.

 _‘If you need anything else, you know where to find me. Take care of yourself_.’

They disconnect the call, and Connor reaches over, pulling the thick wool blanket on the back of the couch down over him. He falls into stasis quickly. Comfortable, safe, serene, faintly glowing within him, blue LED matching that little white star somewhere deep on the inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fever dream smut alert for next chapter, hold onto your butts.


	11. Daydream, Wetdream, Nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just remember that I told you to hold onto your butts. Here's ya NSFW warning for some public voyeurism and interfacing sex you robot lovin' freaks.
> 
> Also:
> 
> T/W for suicide and suicidal ideation.
> 
> Also:
> 
> Sorry.

Three miles across the city, at 885 W. Canfield, building three, apartment 1041, Nathan Cole falls asleep. But he doesn't slip into stasis, not like he's supposed to. Not the peaceable silence of synthetic rest that he's grown to appreciate in his second life. 

Nathan Cole dreams, for the first time since being reborn.

//

He’s deep within a crowd, in a hazy, smoky room. Vague music cascades around him in undulating, vibrant crescendos, incomprehensible. The notes rise and fall, tangible, weaving through the mist above him in an entire wavelength of colors. Synesthetic light show. Brilliant beyond words. He can feel everything. The planet, the sound, the rotation of the earth, the beat of the blue heart inside him, and the one at his side.

There’s an android to his left. A tall, lithe, beautiful thing. Round, supple cheeks. Brown eyes to drown yourself in. A smile that can kill. The most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

_Connor._

He's dazzling. Indescribable. Celestially radiant; blinding. They turn towards each other, in the middle of the fray, and they give each other a look. Not any that they've given another before. It's the one they reserve only for _them._

Their hands search for each other at their sides, pleading, needing the contact, desperately. When they find each other, it's like they've been electrified in every single synthetic pore, every metal piece in their chassis. Every molecule within them. There’s only them, and the stars in their eyes, while Nate runs a languid finger over the tall android’s wrist below his own. Connor's eyelids flutter, breath hitching in his chest. He's shivering, wanton, hungry for more, even here, in the middle of everything. Everyone looking.

Who the hell cares?

Nate wants him.

They want each other.

_Always._

Where their hands conjoin, they shimmer from within, synth-skin pulled back from two little places. The white beneath skin uncovered, to the two glowing blue lines they’ve had etched into their ring fingers below. Done on opposite hands just so they can come together any time, any day. They've been there for two years now, but it feels like they were just built with them already in.

It doesn’t matter what music is in the background, and he doesn’t care. The feeling between them is everything. They're alive, in the delicious sublimity of that moment, together. The two Detectives, the dynamic duo. Partners, in life. They lean closer together, his head on Connor's shoulder, right near his chin, and they sway in the cosmic perfection of the feel of each other in their arms. Their glow's reaching higher. They feel like they're burning. Consumed. Firestorm. Maelstrom. A white hot cataclysm.

Nate could stay like this for a thousand years. There’s nowhere more important than this place.

Connor traces lazy circles into the muscles defining his arms, holding him closer, and closer still. His blushing lips begin to kiss the faintest outline on Nate's brow, down his cheek, across his eyes. The simplest gesture, but it rolls through every place in him. Then slowly, he leans down, and after he teases, just one time, because he can't bear another moment without those lips on his own. . .

Contact. Supernova.

Connor nips into his mouth, just like he always does, because he's _ravenous_ for him. Dominating. Leading, just like Nathan's always hoped he'd be in bed, and he feels in the stratosphere. They're heaven on Earth there. There's thunder, and lightning, and a summer storm swirling from his chest, to his achingly hard cock, to his core.

Connor, his husband, his partner, his lover, his fucking _everything_ , knows exactly, precisely what to do to leave him adamantine already, in the middle of the crowd.

"We gonna do this right here?"

Nate's desire runs clear through the android in front of him, and Connor moans at the mere sound of it, heavy with need. That beautiful music that is Nate's voice cuts through the fray, like there's nobody even there. It's Connor's favorite sound in the entirety of the universe. He'd follow it anywhere. He'll do anything to coax those delicious little sounds from it that make him implode from his circuits, out.

Connor says nothing, and looks down, chest heaving, thirium pumping, wild, and holds out his hand. 

Nate knows exactly what he's offering.

The white takes over their palms, their wrists, they let each other in. Interfacing. They shudder, and shake, and there’s an earthquake between them. That first little pull as they begin to feel each other’s synapses in their brain while they share _everything._

They’re overtaken, pupils blown so far over the horizon that they’d come back around again, and Nate forces his mouth to his own. Their bodies bleed tan to white where they run their hands along each other's skin. There's teeth, gasping, the taste of each other on the other android's tongue. His lover breaks away, almost unable, almost lost in that heady fever. He looks Nate in the eye, letting his intention settle through his fingertips, and Nate's almost comes right then and there when he sees what Connor's planning to do in his mind's eye. He slinks lower, and lower, fingers swirling that addictive white magic into his synthetic skin. And down, down he goes, never looking away. He's beginning to speak, to tease. 

With three simple things, he knows he's about to undue Nathan, right there, and the thought of it just makes him look forward to immediately doing it all over again.

"I love you."

He presses in further, chasing the high running in their veins, molten, magmatic.

"I want you, Nate."

He sears his name into his skin, husked out with pleasure, static and low. He’s sucking, lapping, fingernails tracing an electric current as he goes, over that perfect little spot right above his hips, that he’d found so many years ago. The one that overloads Nathan's brain, makes him incoherent, bliss, overridden. They rebound in the promise of the pleasure to come over and over, tandem, joined, and it’s too much.

"I’m going to hold you, and fuck you, right here, right after you come. I want you to taste yourself, and I want you to be inside of you, and I want everyone to know you’re mine."

Nate is moaning, mewling, every word a starburst in his head.

He can't take it, he can't _fucking_ take it. He growls out a ' _please_ , _fucking please,_ ' and just like that, they’re both so close already, one watching his lips part with the words, the other forming them on his tongue. He feels Connor's every intention. He knows exactly what he’s going to do, feels him doing it, feels it happening to him in the same exact nanosecond, and feeds it right back to him.

God, he can’t help it, and he cries out his name. Within the name, a confession, profession. ' _You are my everything._ ' Unspoken, always there.

It’s like this every time. He’s never felt this way with anyone else, and he never will again, because this is the man who he will love, past all time, and the unknown of what lies beyond. No one else burns him from the outside in. Not in this way.

" _Fuck_ , Con--."

They need this, more than anything. They’re fire, they’re fumbling, fingers as fast as they can now with the anticipation, above and below all the same. They're full, and about to burst, action and reaction, and if Nate doesn’t feel those smirking, rosy lips wet around him. . . If Connor doesn't drown in the taste of him while takes all of him. . . If Nate doesn't see those cheekbones hollow out, and that tongue run from the tip to the base at his chassis he’ll— he'll--

Pause. Motion ceasing. Interruption.

Everything stops.

Time rewinds, and transcends itself, to the beginning again.

He’s deep within a crowd, in a hazy, smoky room. Vague music cascades around him in undulating, vibrant crescendos, incomprehensible.

There’s shouting behind them, beyond the crowd. It cuts through the smoke like a knife. 

Nate is confused. He looks down, an apology on his tongue, not wanting to lose this moment because of some jerk in the back, but.

There’s nobody there.

The connection is gone.

He’s only himself, alone. The ring on his finger ceases to glow. It disappears entirely. The skin pulls back.

Reality sets in.

The scene inserts a memory, hours ago.

Connor is standing up straight, eyes narrow, breath catching, murder in his eyes, looking towards a face on the horizon. 

"We’ve got work to do."

The smoke in the air thickens. The bass trends darker. The white and black magic turns fetid. His skin no longer prickles with the feel of his lover. It stipples with electricity, and a cold, dark ocean. Nate swallows, and tries to stop him.

"Connor, don’t. We don’t have to. Just come back, it’ll be fine."

He doesn’t listen. Those rosy lips aren’t interested in him anymore, even though Nate's still hard, still yearning for the feel of him.

Connor heads to the bar, at the back. There’s a man there, the one they’ve been hunting for so very long. A strange feeling of deja vu washes over Nate, and it’s like it isn’t a dream any longer. Barely. It's bleeding over into a shitty projection of the day prior. A sickening golem. Bastardized. Black and white meeting color. Neither of them correct. Both a fantasy.

It plays out like a movie, and he can't do anything but watch through his own eyes as he's pulled along.

He knows exactly what movements his limbs will take before they do. The punch, the pull, the little side steps, and the words on his tongue while they argue under the neon lights around them.

Something's building. A sense of trepidation, that something in the dream will permanently change the memory. Change reality. Change the past. 

But he _knows_ how it ends, doesn't he? He _knows_ they’ll run out, to a field, and he’ll tackle the man to the ground, and Connor will give him that smile, the one his husband had, while he was daydreaming before. 

He’ll still do good. Things will still end perfectly. He just has to ride along.

Nate watches, waiting, still terrified for a nightmare to come.

But everything’s the same. A copy. He’s just looking from the outside in.

It continues on, and on. The railing, the running, the flying past Connor into the breeze.

Maybe things will be fine, Nate thinks to himself, as he watches through those eyes, and his partner falls behind him. He’s already almost to the end of things, now.

There's the same, broken grass crunch beneath his boots as he runs. He can breathe the chilled, crisp city air while he barrels towards his destiny.

He tackles the man to the ground, hands out, fingers gripping, royally pissed, raring to go.

The man beneath him hits the cold, hard dirt with a gasping cry, something inside of him likely broken. Nathan's on him immediately, shoving his stupid face into the compacted brown earth, and flips him back around. He wrenches his hand beyond his spine, and _pulls._

It’s been a whole year, and he’s finally got him right where he wants him. And he wants revenge. For the wrist, and the eye, and the thousand dollar hospital bill, and the fifty late nights where he couldn’t just go home and watch a movie with his best friend. He wants retribution. For this little fuckers _gall._ For all the people he's killed with those hands. For an interrupted evening, with the android who he loves more than anything.

“Ow, ow, watch it man you’re gonna fuckin’ breAAA—“

Nate separates the limb from the socket, humeral head, torn right down the middle. It puts itself in the running for his second favorite sound, in the whole wide universe. That squelching little 'crunch.' He can’t help it, but he’s smirking. Pleasured, rapturous, from the killer's white hot pain.

What a fucking tragedy that he won’t know who’s really done it to him.

Before, in the reality that was past, Nathan had settled on breaking his arm. He'd thrown out a short 'I'll shove those filthy fucking hands down your throat and choke you, little shit,' and backed away. All he dared, before turning away.

But this isn't a memory. Not anymore. The shift he's been dreading is surging around him, and he begins to scream in the middle of the scene.

And now, the turn. The Prestige. White rabbit.

The scene flips again.

Something wicked, and vile, and reckless overrides his common sense, for the sheer pleasure of how it’ll make him feel.

In the middle of the dream, the Nathan within himself, begins to plead.

_“Stop, stop it! Don’t fucking do it, don’t say anything, it’s not worth it!”_

It's no use. He can't control the voice anymore.

The man who was him just a few hours before leans down, malice in his eyes, unable to stop. He brings his lips close, temple red, rage eclipsing.

“How’s it feel. . .”

He wrenches the arm over further, speaking in the barest, faintest way. Almost gentle, as he pulls.

“To have your stinking, putrid, serial killing ass handed to you. . .”

_“You don't need to! You don't need this! You did good, Nate, you did GOOD!”_

“By the old man that's been hunting you down for two goddamn years?”

The killers eyes widen a fraction, confused, broken, dazed.

He _knows_.

And the world breaks.

The dream falls from its axis off the edge of the world. Two sided plain. Slips from the third to second dimension. It spins round, underbellied, on the rotation of the earth, and Nate falls upwards, high into the black of the sky. He's screaming, tumbling end over end, unceasing. He falls for a second, and an eternity at the same time. He can't even tell. He has no long it takes, in the middle of that eternal black, before he finds himself on his heels again, in the same exact place as before.

Everything is red. Everything smells of death, and smoke, and ruin. Everything is burning in the field around them.

And Connor's not still twenty yards away, unhearing, blissed out from pride. Instead, he's right there, behind him, and he hears every single word while Nathan leans down.

_"Goddamn it, that's not what happened! I didn't say those words! He doesn't know! He doesn't know it's me!"_

Behind the reflection of himself, Connor starts trembling. Quaking. Overcome, knowing immediately what the man on the blood soaked ground has been told. He tries to claw his way out, break free from the spell. He can't do a thing. Connor's lip is trembling. His eyes are wide awake.

"It's you."

_'NO, GODDAMN IT, NO!"_

"It's been you, this whole time."

 _'FUCKING STOP! STOP!'_  
  
". . . Hank?"

He tries to surge forward, but he's clawing at nothing, just still in the air, watching the nightmare unfold without any influence or purchase.

Connor looks up at the him that is not him, and in the blink of an eye there's great streaks of blue running onto the ground. There are letters carved into his skin, a thousand little cuts, flayed, open, bleeding wild.

H, and A, and N, and K.

Over and over, on every inch of skin.

Suddenly, Nate blinks out of existence. Ephemeral. Like he was never even there.

He's weeping, and he can do nothing. He can't do anything, not a fucking thing at all. He wants to wake up. He wants to go home. He wants to _WAKE UP_.

Connor's eyes glaze over where he kneels. The sleeves of that brilliant yellow flannel that he looked so fucking good in are being drowned in a sea of blue, color creeping down. A look comes over him. A tiny, 'oh,' on his lips. His arm raises slowly, into the front side pocket. He takes out a gun, little Smith and Wesson Model 39. The gun that he should have brought before. 

He has it this time.

Nate knows exactly where this is going.

_'Fuck. . Fuck, NO! DON'T DO IT. PLEASE, ANYTHING BUT THAT! CONNOR, **PLEASE**!'_

He cradles the grey little thing in his hand. Caresses it slow. It's a lover. It's the only love he's got left. Everyone else is dead and gone.

'NO IT'S NOT, IT'S NOT. I'M RIGHT HERE, CONNOR, IT'S ME. I'VE BEEN HERE THE WHOLE TIME.'

Suddenly Tupickow is gone, and Nate is just a ghost, floating in the great wide nowhere.

The dream blips, and the dirt is gone beneath them. The grass is replaced by a dirty sea of shaggy brown carpet. The black closes in to make four yellow walls. Connor is kneeling on the floor of a bedroom. He's dressed in black. His mourning clothes. Back from a tiny little funeral, for an empty coffin, a body that's disappeared without a trace, or explanation, or call. His right leg is resting on top of the little puddles of red and brown that Hank had left behind on the floor. It's all that's left of him.

It smells like death.

It smells like death, and old dog in there.

_"Fuck. Fuck. Oh my god."_

Nate sees every bit of anguish, of grief, of cowardice he left behind. The rawness of his legacy. And Connor's in the wake of it, drowning. Sublimated. Eviscerated in every form. The little Smith and Wesson is replaced in his hands by a .357 Magum. Pulled from the drawer, second one on the left. Just where Connor knows he kept it.

It's always loaded.

Hank had made sure of that.

Connor looks around the room, at the blood, and the emptiness, and the broken life looming in front of him. The promise of nothing. Everything's gone. He doesn't have anything anymore.

_"Connor, I'm sorry. . . I'm so fucking sorry. I didn't mean to go. I didn't mean to."_

Connor weeps, in that sad, old room, because he doesn't have his _everything,_ anymore.

_'Please, I'll say it. I love you. I love you so fucking **much** , and I'm HERE. I'M FUCKING HERE.'_

It's no use.

He just doesn't hear him.

Connor sits there, thinks about the car. The breeze on his skin. The sound of their voices carrying together. He wants to go where they can make that beautiful symphony together again. He can't do this life alone. 

He raises the magnum to the LED on his head.

He thinks about what it'll feel like to finally hold Hank's hand in the place he's about to go.

"STO--"

He pulls the trigger, and the blue little ring flies right out with his brain.

//

Nate shoots up, screaming, crying, babbling into the air and the room around him.

"CONNOR! F. . . F--fuck, I. . . I. . ."

He can't form a coherent sentence, the finality of the gunshot taking up every single sense of his being. He's shaking, violently, chassis clattering together. One leg, other leg, thrown over the side of the bed where he'd laid, and he's panicking, rushing out of the stale bedroom air that stinks of fear.

He clamors out into the hallway, clutching at the smooth walls for purchase he just won't find. He can't feel his limbs. He can't feel anything but the frenzy in his chest, and. . .

He falls to the ground in the hall. His vision is swimming, static, panic, everything a cloud. He accesses his sub-routines, telling them to stop, just stop already, but it's like the mechanical side of him just won't listen.

He’s not supposed to be dreaming. He’s not supposed to feel this way.

He doesn't know what to do.

A notice pops up at the edge of his vision.

//WARNING!!WARNING!!WARNING!!// !!SENSORY OVERLOAD IMMINENT!! //

Nate feels a great, sweeping fear, even farther within him. Mortality. The threat of a shutdown. Frying his android brain with overstimulation. He's seen it before.

The readout at the corner of his vision is blinking wilder, even more rapidly, and he's falling away.

Nate does the only thing that manages to come into his head, among the volatile threat that's slowly covering him in black.

As he sinks to the ground, amid the darkness inside him, and the black of the night, he dials Anthony. . .

It rings one time.

". . .Nate? Nathan?"

He's a little too late.

"Answer me, what's going on?!"

And he slips into nothing.


	12. Catharsis, and Her Best Friends Raphael, Michaelangelo, and Donatello

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Incoming technical science jargon.

Some indeterminate amount of time later, Nathan slowly starts to drift into consciousness.

_"--te. . . Nate? . . . Nate, you hearing me in there?"_

Sound reaches his ears and it's piercing. Incredibly sharp, way too loud. Someone turn down the fucking volume, he's _dying_ over here.

Or at least he was, last night.

"Is your speech capacity malfunctioning? Blink once for yes, twice for no."

He blinks twice and lifts up a middle finger, head reeling.

"Pff, yeah, ok, you're fine."

He hears Anthony shuffling around somewhere to his right, and finally decides to open his eyes. The white walled rooms of CyberLife bloom into being around him, and it's like staring directly into the sun. Aggravatingly bright. He puts his hand to his head, blocking the multiplied lumination from furthering the feeling of sharp tacks prickling around in him.

It doesn't help much.

"Jesus. . . what?"

He attempts to sit up, but finds that he's strapped into just about a thousand wires poking out from the terminal behind him. What they'd used to reboot him back in October, and what they usually used to access his code relay directly when they brought him in for checkups and updates if they suspected something was wrong with his head.

Wait. . . he was in CyberLife Tower, on Belle Isle. Anthony had gotten his call.

He wasn't dead.

_Again._

Two lives down, seven to go, it seemed.

Well, at least the ongoing gift of life and living was a positive development. The thumbtacks in his brain, rolling around in sharp little circles, however, were not.

"My fuckin' _head,_ kid. Why the hell did you shitbirds keep the pain and suffering part of being alive?"

Anthony bounds back over to him, data pad and clipboard in hand, a little smirk dotting his mouth.

"I was wondering if you'd experience any fragmentation in your pain threshold after your panic attack earlier."

He gets an idea, and starts to dig into his white lab coat. After some incoherent rustling, a pen comes forth, immediately poking into Nate's side, making him wince as it digs in to his torso.

"HEY!"

"Hmm, pain tolerance appears to be normal: _big baby threshold_."

"Keep talking and we'll find out what yours is, you little bastard."

Anthony chuckles, knowing there's not anything behind the threat. Just Nate's normal, post-cerebral brand of cranky grog. The leftover old-man within him.

"How are you feeling otherwise? Do you remember everything about the past twelve hours? Any gaps in your memory?"

Nate finally shifts himself far enough up on the gurney to sit somewhat upright, and thinks through the prior evening logistically. He went to a concert, he tackled an asshole, he absolutely thrashed with Connor in the car, and he. . .

_Connor holds a gun to his head, and the LED flies out the other side._

Right. . .

"Unfortunately."

He groans into his hands, running them up and down his face to try and wash away the sheer horror of that particular memory. Nightmare. Absolute hell-scape.

Anthony does a noise, and it makes Nate look sharply up towards him where he's eyeballing a screen on the opposite side of them. On it, Nate's memories are playing out like a movie, directly ripped from his internal database so Anthony could review, just in case anything horrible had befallen him back at the apartment that they needed to know about.

He blushes, a little bit of blue overtaking the sputtering red LED at his temple, realizing that Anthony has probably gone and watched his whole evening via brain-skype.

Oh god.

_The dream._

_The dirty talk._

"So, uh, I'm going to go ahead and apologize for anything, not saying there _IS_ anything, but what you _may_ have _potentially_ witnessed while inside of my brain from the past few ho--"

"Oh, you mean the part where you fantasized about making sweet interfacing love to your partner at the DPD in the middle of a crowded room?"

Kill him. Take it back. He doesn't want life. Rescind the privilege.

He puts his head back in his hands, mortified, speaking again through his fingers and palms covering his forehead to his chin.

"Yes. That."

Anthony laughs, barking, and shakes his head while patting Nate gently on the back.

"Hey, an adventurous, mutual, sexual relationship can be a healthy cornerstone of any adult's life, android or no."

"Shut up."

"I'll be sure to include that you seem to be favoring public sex and voyeurism in my next report to the CyberLife Foreplay R&D Divisi--"

"Please, god, I'll do anything, just stop talking."

Anthony flicks Nate on the shoulder, the little gesture he always seems to do, an inside joke between the two of them. He sidles over, and takes a small seat on the very edge of the gurney where he finds a bit of room.

"So. . . you're dreaming, huh? Didn't tell me that last week when I asked about any significant changes."

"That's because it hasn't happened before. First time. Hopefully last time. Just update my driver or some shit and take it away, because if that's the android equivalent of a fun little romp through my REM cycle I don't want anything to do with it."

Anthony taps his pen gently on the data-pad in front of him, pensive.

"You know, we thought there was a slim chance that this kind of thing would end up happening. Or at least I did. Would have bet on it. Too many organic alterations made to the cyber-brain to suggest that you wouldn't have carried over more parts of your humanity than we originally anticipated."

Nate sighs, and finally removes the hands from his head, choosing to cross them adamantly across his chest instead. He looks at Anthony, giving him the signal to start the snarky-tech tirade he's no doubt about to go on, using a string of big words that don't belong in the English language.

"The symposium of human to android synapses isn't quite the same as making them fresh off the line for an original synthetic. Their brain isn't really a brain. . . rather, it's an individual cranial chassis within the cerebral basin, which contains the sub-organic compounds that allow the electro-chemical signals between processor and limb to occur. Thirium is filtered through the spine, and filtered into a rich, highly conductive molecular soup that allows the data to pass through."

. . .

"Those impulses travel along the chassis via synthetic receptors at each and every limb, each neural link between sinew, tissue, bone. . . Android dendrites, really, allowing the cyber-'brain' to send the signals from the processor to achieve movement, internal homeostasis, and maintain proper motor function."

. . .

"And since that process is carefully controlled via millions of lines of code, sort of like how RNA unzips correct genetic markers along DNA strands with telomerase, the synthetic 'ribonucleoprotein,' the determination of executions within said code that is, needs to de-fragment in regular intervals, to ensure that the input and output matches the determined processes in an android's systems."

. . .

Nathan raises a hand slowly, like a kindergartner.

"Yes, Nate, can I help you?"

"I. . . I'm sorry, no amount of money you want to throw into me can buy me the ability to understand what the fuck just came out of your mouth, can I get that in English?"

Anthony snorts, trying to find words that will make sense to Nate, using a mockingly juvenile voice to communicate in simpler terms. He starts poking him in the chest to emphasize each portion of what he's trying to say.

"Android not have human brain."

Poke.

"Android follow code for instruction on how to keep not dead."

Poke.

"Therefore, android needs nap time at night to make sure code goes to right limb and doesn't cause him to blow up."

. . .

. . .

. . .

". . . Are you telling me I'm going to explode if I don't get enough sleep?"

" _NATE._ "

"What, you should give a guy a warning or something if that's the case."

That earns him a thorough smack on the arm, attentive little flicks completely out the window while he's being a sarcastic jerk. Anthony tries again, lifting himself back off of the bed and in front of him, bemusedly exasperated with his shenanigans.

"What I'm _TRYING_ to say, is that when we built you, we had to build an entirely unique brain that would harbor both your human consciousness and your android executions. The human brain is basically it's own computer, and neurons firing are what facilitates the 'you' part of being alive, along with different cerebral regions. All we did is make a similar, synthetically structured version, keeping those electro-chemical connections between each of your equivalent neurons, and the android brain upon your death. You sort of just. . ."

Anthony wiggles his fingers and drags them across the air.

"Scampered along the neural superhighway into the other host."

"Ok, brain road, that I can get."

"So by using a more neurotypical structure for your construction, we had to keep a synthetic version of those cranial regions to allow your consciousness to enmesh with the code. Unlike a typical android, your brain would essentially look fairly normal from the inside out. Same structure. Hypothalmus, Medulla, Occipital Lobe, all re-printed with bio-materials that can be nourished by an intake of thirium. So, since you still have those regions, it makes logical sense that you could have developed the ability to dream in the middle of de-fragmentation. Might make even more sense that you would, seeing as humans use sleep to address underlying stressors subconsciously. Work through their issues internally, maintain psychological homeostasis."

"Ah, I always knew I had a little bit of homo-something in me. I did wear a fuck ton of leather in college."

Anthony shoves him where he lays because of his sheer flagrant bullshit.

"Ok smart ass, there isn't a better way to say 'maintaining the body's typical day-to-day circadian and physical states of being in order to prevent psychological breaks from occurring. Allow me to demonstrate."

He grabs a holo-pad, and points it at the wall, fast-forwarding through the evening until they reached Nate's episode in the apartment. Nate briefly turns his head to the side and covers his eyes while they skip through the lewd portions of the menagerie, throwing in another 'sorry, sorry,' while it flies past them. Eventually it slows, right as the bullet comes flying out of the gun, and Nate shoots up in bed, overheating, panicked beyond reproach. Anthony clears his throat, and turns back towards Nate.

"So, my best guess at why this happened? The human portion of yourself needs time to de-fragment the complex emotions that you still feel, just like everyone else, so you had a nightmare, and acute panic-attack. Usually something like this. . ."

He rewinds briefly, to the field. Connor covered with letters and symbols, bleeding, onto the dark ground below.

". . . means that you feel deeply guilty about something. Haunted by something you believe _you've_ influenced. Negatively. And this--"

He forwards the tape again, to Connor on the filthy floor, clutching the gun.

". . . means that you blame _yourself_ for his pain and suffering. You suspect that he may have harmed himself due to your absence. We had our team psychologist look through the tape--"

Nate readies a comment about 'not needing a shrink for his horny wet dreams,' but Anthony immediately shushes him.

"--and he thinks that your shut-down was, essentially, the shutdown equivalent of a panic attack, caused by your internal struggle with issues you've been ignoring for a long time. Probably since before you came here. Those went unexplored, or glossed over, and so your mind couldn't parse how to cope with that, and cope with the fact that this--"

He rewinds a final time, showing the moment when Connor takes his hand, and they interface. That electric jolt between them. His face looks absolutely overcome with passion, and love, and. . .

Pipe dreams. . .

". . . means that you still, _REALLY_ need to get laid."

"Oh, fuck _OFF_ , kid."

"I'm joking, I'm joking. . ."

He sets the control pad down, and gives Hank a pointed, honest look.

"But in all seriousness. . .how long has that wishful thinking been going on?"

He points backwards towards the screen behind them.

"Don't know what you're talking about."

"Come on, you can't act like it's not glaringly obvious once you think about it for more than thirty seconds."

Anthony sighs, and runs his fingers through his short black hair.

"Look. . . do you remember that one night, right before your transposition? When you had that nightmare back then, too?"

The memory is there, but it's. . . hazy. Probably from the drugs, and the morphine they'd had him on back then. He lightly shrugs his shoulders, wondering where Anthony is going with this particular line of inquiry.

"Well, I do. You woke up, screaming, begging me to remember who you were. You said that you'd walked back into your old job, and _he'd_ completely forgotten about you. Even though you didn't change a single thing about your outward appearance. . . Which tells me, as someone who likes to imagine they may be a halfway acquaintance by now, that back then? The number one fear on your mind wasn't the transfer. It wasn't the procedure. It wasn't your liver. It wasn't dying, it was. . ."

He picks up the pad again, and zooms in briefly on the look on Nate's face while he looks up at Connor before them.

"Him. Losing your friendship. Losing your connection. You were terrified that after you went through everything, he wouldn't want you anymore. You've always told me that you didn't feel anything more for him than companionship. . . but considering this? It's kind of funny that I took that seriously, seeing that it seems like every single motivation you had for coming back from the dead involved this look."

He points to the screen.

"Right here."

Nate runs his eyes across Connor's lips, his nose, his brilliant blue LED from the dream. The faraway and grounded look in his eyes. The absolute adoration that he's looking down at him with.

Love. It's just love, plain and simple, returned right back to him.

He swallows deeply, ingrained past reflex, and feels a chill come over him.

This is his motivation. His sub-conscious goal. He's fucking _right._

Nate's thirium pump beats faster, mulling over the sentiment. The cut of the words, fighting against them. Knowing they're true, but realizing that it means some terrible things about him. That he's made himself more of a selfish prick than he had given himself credit for.

It means that yes, Anthony's right. Connor is the only thing in the entire universe that he'd face down death and kick her square in the fucking jaw for, screaming 'not today, bitch.'

And that vision of Connor on the ground, clutching the gun? Putting it to his head? It means that deep down, Nate is more aware than he wanted to admit that when he went and left Connor alone, didn't make that call, left that cracked little phone on the floor. . . and. . .

He hurt him.

He hurt him fucking deep. Cut him into pieces, just like those letters on his skin that bled blue into the black, and ignored it for his own selfish reasons.

And why? Why even go through it all if he knew exactly what he was doing? Why?

Just for some fucking morphine, and a needle before he kicked the bucket? That slaking need to ignore reality he'd always struggled with? Or to come back alive? To get a new body? Some shiny new plastic ass to show off to cops like Tina at the DPD? To run away from all of his fucking issues just like he'd been doing for the past ten years of his life?

What use was any fucking explanation, when no matter what, it all means that he's hurt the android that he loves more than anything?

The one who maybe had loved him back?

Suddenly, Nate feels sick. Nauseated, even though he doesn't have anything in his non-existent stomach. A stippling, staticy feeling that rises from his core, to the tips of his fingers, and his processors stitch underneath him. Anthony shoots out a hand, steadying, so he doesn't come crashing to the floor from his sitting position, and he lays him back down.

He's hurt the person he loves more than anything.

He's lied to the person who he loves more than anything.

No, scratch that.

He's manipulated the person who he loves, more than anything, into keeping him around, even after he's dead, for completely selfish reasons. Even if he didn't mean to, it's what's fucking _happened._

He didn't consider how shrinking into the darkness, into that house, into that room, to just let himself die like some pathetic old fucking dog would make Connor feel. He didn't think that maybe, just maybe, Connor would have wanted to spend those final days with him. Would have kept it together for long enough to see him goodbye. Comfort him. Maybe he'd have wanted him to go peacefully, cracking the same jokes, sharing the same conversations, watching those movies until sunrise.

Just being at his side.

Being his partner.

Just like always.

He didn't think, for one second, that he was taking something precious away from Connor, in order to gift himself a selfish lie:

_'He won't care when you're gone, just like everyone else, so just go ahead, and get it over with.'_

And the smile? That goddamn smile he keeps thinking about? The one he's gone to hell and back just to get again?

It proves every fucking iota of the sentiment wrong.

Connor's always felt that way.

. . .

A fool.

He's a goddamn fool.

That sentence, right there, was the stupidest fucking thing he's ever come up with, in his fifty-something long years of ceaseless bullshit.

And now it will always define the next one-hundred or some-odd of his new fucking future.

He thinks he might pass out. He can't seem to find the steadying rhythm of air in his lungs, and Anthony starts to rub up and down his back while he considers the implications of what he's done.

"Fuck, kid. Fuck. I'm a bad person. I'm the fucking _worst. . ._ What have I done?"

He didn't even call him.

"I just left him all alone."

He didn't even tell him.

"I was his partner, his best friend, he loved me, for two goddamn years and I just. . ."

He didn't let him say goodbye.

"Ran away. . ."

He didn't let him hold his hand, when he was finally ready to go.

An onyx ocean of disdain washes over him. It pools in his eyes, and Nate begins to weep, right there, in the middle of the lab. He doesn't know how long he cries, how long those gasping, heaving, gulping noises careen out of him in front of the display where they're embracing. Anthony puts his arms around his shoulders at some point, trying to calm him, but not doing much good.

Nate sits there, and he weeps.

He weeps for himself. Not Nate, but Hank Anderson. The version of himself that he'd short-changed in the worst way imaginable, in the moments that it counted the most.

He weeps for his friends. For Fowler, who said that he was sick and tired of thinking that he was dead all the time, because it hurt him to the goddamn core to lose his oldest buddy. Ride or die camaraderie, born through their almost thirty years working the same beat.

He weeps for Connor, his partner. The person who'd stayed up with him night after night, case after case, never relenting, always supporting, never pausing and letting Hank think anything less than 'you're a good cop, Lieutenant,' for one single second. The man who drug him along by his heels, promising that there was a good. . .

No. . .

A **great** man, inside of him.

He weeps for the fact that he should have just reached out and taken his hand in the car that one day, because it would have been better to live, happy, if Connor would have squeezed that hand back, for just a little while before he had to go, instead of robbing them both of that chance when he returned.

Nathan Cole. . . Hank Anderson. . .

He already had that smile, from the dream, didn't he?

That look was already there.

He didn't need to go through heaven and hell, and back out again, to find some chance at happiness. He could have had it, if he'd let himself be loved, if he'd seen past the wall of self-loathing, and self-doubt that Connor had never even fucking noticed in the first place.

What a fool.

What a _fool._

He shudders and shivers for some long minutes more, before gradually, slowly, they come to a stop. He's left unmoving, and still with that vague sense of stippling numb. Eventually, he wipes at his eyes, with the back of his brand new, tanned, lithe hand, that for the first time, hurts a bit to look at, knowing the wake it's left behind.

"So. . . you wanna just put me in the trash, or something?"

Anthony gives him a sigh, and a look, but he's only joking. Still kosher with that gallows humor, after all.

"I'm kidding. . . but I. . . I don't know what to do, kid."

Anthony breaks away, and crouches down at the bed, briefly checking his watch and throwing out a yawn. Nate realizes he has no idea how long they've been back at CyberLife, if it's night or day outside because he hasn't bothered to look. He brings up his temporal display, and sees that it's 5:32am, Friday the 21st. An hour and a half before he's due in for first shift at the PD. The dawn of Hell Week.

"I don't know how to walk in there again. Back to the station. I don't know if I can look him in the eye. Will you give me some advice, here? Not as my handler, not as a smarty-pants tech. . . just as a human being? What do I do?"

Anthony hums below him, taking his request to heart, trying to think of something to say that's earnest, because really, he thinks of himself as Nathan's friend. He hadn't expected to gain a friendship out of this wild, and wacky thing they had tried in the basement of Belle Isle Tower 3, but here they were. A tech, and a friend, who felt broken, and unsure.

"I think what you're asking me more than anything, is 'do I go back, and keep acting the same, keep being Nathan Cole, who he seems to genuinely enjoy, and care about now' or 'do I go in there, and sit him down, and tell him everything that's been going on, and risk the possibility of losing your relationship, platonic and everything else in between, forever? Making him lose someone else, again?'"

Nate laughs, but there's no humor in the sound.

"Yeah. . . that's the conundrum."

Anthony thinks, tapping his toe to the ground, weighing the options.

". . . Well, we could try making a pros and cons list?"

"You and your fucking lists."

"They're helpful, I promise."

So Nate concedes, grudgingly. Anthony gets out the pad to type while he speaks, so they can look at the results later on. They talk for almost thirty minutes, list larger than they ever intended, and the readout at the corner of his vision tells him it's 6:04am by the time they're done. By the end of it, they learn that no matter what--

"So, I'm royally chopped, fucked and screwed."

Anthony looks down, watching the little scribbles he's made line up into a Venn-diagram that has an equal number of positives and consequences on each side, no matter what he chooses.

"Yeah, that looks about accurate. . ."

Nate groans, and smacks his head back on the gurney, having removed the wires almost twenty minutes before so he could pace around the room, nervously.

"So I can walk in there, today, and be honest with him, and feel the potentially unholy wrath of his inherent rage while I explain that I've been lying to him for two months, and then the three months before, and that the person who he cared (admittedly upon reflection) very, very deeply about has come back to him, against all odds, from the inescapable grip of human mortality, with a 97% chance that he never wants to see me, or my sorry lying ass, ever again."

"Correct."

"Or, on the other hand, I can say nothing. I can let the past die, and let all of my worries wash away in a river, because I've already made decisions, and I have to live with the consequences, and this option will prevent further pain and suffering for Connor in learning that his newest, maybe sort-of important relationship with yet another partner, is kind of a sham."

"That's right."

"So I can either torture us both, or I can torture the ever living hell out of myself, is what you're saying?"

"Kind of."

Nate groans a final time, knowing that he's got to start hauling ass over to downtown within the next fifteen minutes. Anthony's told him that he probably won't have another imminent shutdown if he can come to terms with deciding what to do, but he still isn't sure how to feel.

"That's fine and all, but option two means that I've just chosen to lie. Again. Another selfish, piece of shit decision on good old Hank-Slash-Nate. Maybe I'll just throw all of my bullshit together and change my name to 'Hate.' That'd be more fucking in line with all of my life decisions, don't you think?"

Anthony yawns again, and picks at something crusting in the corner of his eye, when a thought comes into his head.

"Have you ever heard him talk about how he feels about Hank? If he's decided to let him go?"

. . . Well, no. Not explicitly. Apparently Connor had just kept on keeping on when he disappeared, maintaining case load, so nobody had a good read on where he was, internally. It wasn't like he could just call up Nines and ask, he technically didn't know him anymore.

And he certainly wasn't going to fucking ask Reed if he had any gleaming insights.

"Maybe you should ask him."

Nate throws out a questioning look.

"Ask him what, exactly?"

"And also, didn't you say that the reason it's so important for you to get back on time today is that the four or five days before Christmas, and the five or six after that until New Years are always called 'Hell Week?'"

"The name is accurate, that's for damn sure."

"Then don't go in there this morning, guns blazing, trying to figure this out in the next hour. Completely ignoring everything we just talked about, if you up and have to abandon ship today, if you hurt him, which you would either way in different degrees, you're going to leave him drowning in both emotions, and an unholy see of red tape and paperwork. You told me that his job is something he's exceedingly proud of. You shouldn't compromise that for him, not right now. You should, for the sake of the workload you're going to have to tackle, at the very least, just be around to support him the next few days. Drop some subtle questions. Try and get a read on what his whole perspective on the whole thing is. 'How are you feeling now?' 'Are things going better this Christmas than when you had your old partner?' 'Do you wish you could talk to him, say something to him if you had the chance?'"

Anthony gestures towards Nate, indicating that he'll swipe him out along the way to the main entrance so he can get there on time. They start to pace out of the lab, crossing paths with one pissed off looking CyberLife suit who paces quickly into the Clinical R&D Department while they walk.

"I don't know if he'll be up for that kind of question. We've only, very technically, if you can even call it that, hung out outside of work one time, and that was yesterday. He probably doesn't want to hash all that out with me."

"What was that thing you said? 'By the end of hell week, you either want to murder your partner, or become his best friend?'"

". . . touche. . ."

"Oh, I see you are actually bothering to use one of the 300 languages we bothered to slap in you."

Nate takes a halfhearted swipe at Anthony's shoulder, and he dodges it readily, giggling at his own deviant comment.

"Fuck off, snarky-tech."

"Yeah, yeah. . . But, I think we're finally coming round on the mutual agreement that Hank probably meant more to him than you previously wanted to admit. But if you'll recall, Hank is gone, in his eyes. What if he's gotten over that? What if he has, actually, started to pull himself out of the process of grief? What if he's genuinely feeling happy again? What if he's forgiven you, even? Maybe more than Hank, he could see himself working with Nathan Cole for the next few decades, fighting crime, kicking ass. It might do more harm than good to put him through losing that friendship, and let's be honest. You do have one. It's new, it's just starting, but it's there."

They narrowly miss an intern carrying eight different coffees in his hands, almost to the beginning of the bright tile that denotes the start of the atrium.

"Instead of you making the decision, behind the scenes like before, just get some input from him. I know you still can't go right out and ask carte blanche, but if he sees that part of you, the 'Hank Anderson' portions, completely in the past? Maybe you should leave it there. Let him give his own permission for Hank Anderson to be dead and gone, along with all of the other decisions that he made. Let him guide this next step. If that's what he wants to do, move on that is, then you'll always have to come to terms with where you came from, but maybe. . ."

They're at the towering glass doors at the front of the tower, and Anthony's got him an auto-taxi sidling at the front, ready to go in the still black, sunless morning.

". . . maybe he would rather let it go."

Nate hums, knowing that the answer still isn't perfect, still isn't untainted by some prior bad decisions, but Anthony is right. He should be considering how Connor really feels, and let him choose. So, if he tells him that he'd do anything, _anything_ at all to just get one more chance to talk to Hank, and ask him 'why?'

He'd give it to him. He'd give him every bit of honesty that both he and Hank have ever wanted to express. He can hate him forever, and every bit of that will be his decision if that's what he chooses. He'll quit the DPD, and leave Connor alone, if he needs that as well.

Or--

If he says that things were bad. . . That things were rough, and hell, and he broke along the way, but now that he's out on the other side, he can look back on his old partner fondly? If he says that the past stings, but he wants to make sure that his new future can be bright, and beautiful, and without some of that pain? That he's changed? That he's different, and doesn't want the burden of that memory weighing him down under the surface, since he's finally broken through?

He would never tell him. He would try, one day, to forgive himself, and repent for the next hundred years by making sure that Connor had the best partner, and the best friend, if that's what he wanted, he could ever ask for. He would never push any of his feelings onto him, not unless he ever told him anything different, and not because he was afraid this time. But because he wanted to respect Connor's choices.

He needs to give him that power, as much as he can amidst the crappy situation, more than anything.

He feels more resolute as he steps into the car, more concrete that even though the decision is still looming, there's a clear path to take depending on what _CONNOR_ needs. Not him.

He's starting to feel better, and simultaneously worse because he'd completely forgotten the fact that the whole precinct would practically be on fire by the time that he got there, and for the next ten days straight. But while the auto-taxi drives West, he knows that no matter what, the next few days?

He's going to make sure that he and Connor kick everyone's ass, and that the android is always remembered as the best cop that the precinct has ever seen.

Because he is.

//

Anthony waves Nate into the distance with a curt little motion, waiting until the squeal of tires and the hum of the electric vehicle disappear into the cold morning distance before he paces back inside.

He doesn't have some mask that needs to come off the second that Nathan leaves. He's not some evil, unrepentant bastard that was trying to ruin his life, if anyone thought he might be.

He's just a biology major, coding minor turned CyberLife tech, who wants to make the world a better place, and he's more than happy to start with a grumpy old man, that he genuinely considers his friend.

Anthony grabs a double espresso from the lobby cafe, exhausted after picking Nate up around midnight the day prior, and figures that he might as well start picking through the raw data from Nate's scans while he's already here, just to double check that he wasn't going to have any longstanding repercussions from the episode of self-induced PTSD.

He's got yesterday's data flow pulled up on his personal terminal, a cluttered little desk with about a dozen different figurines lining the sides, when he sees the same suit they'd almost ran into earlier stomp angrily out of Larsson's old office.

"Hey, Shelley, what's got you all pissed this morning?"

The woman in the burgundy suit pauses, and sighs, turning on her kitten heels, back to Anthony's desk. Her shoes punch through the quiet office air with a deafening 'smack' every step she takes.

"Oh, you know, just Jericho making my whole goddamn life a living hell, all over again."

She makes it over, and nonchalantly fingers one of the Ninja Turtles he's got lined up along the right edge, flicking at Donatello's little plastic staff.

"Hm. Raphael was always my favorite. Had a crush on him in seventh grade."

"Wow, I had no clue you were into anthro girl, good for you, represent in the big offices upstairs."

He pumps his fist gently into the air, in solidarity.

"Shut the hell up, Annie."

He chuckles, and grabs the espresso again, unable to help teasing her.

Some of the old man is rubbing off on him, it seems.

"So, you gonna tell me why you stomped all the way down here?"

"Yeah. . . Jericho asked for some case files the other day, requesting any and all 'relevant android developments be fully disclosed to Jericho for watchdog and civil rights reasons.' As if they hadn't already filed three _more_ , differently worded injunctions in the past year since the frickin' debacle with the RK-900."

"Well, Synth R&D did leave the poor guy collecting dust on the shelf, so they did that to themselves."

"Yeah, well, they don't just want the normal, regular old reports. They said they're tired of being told that people can't 'get the relevant information they need, and since we have an entire company's worth of grudges continuing to be upheld, they would appreciate our full cooperation, for the last and final time.'"

She groans, and flings herself into the small chair next to him, and Donatello almost goes crashing down with her while she goes. Anthony manages to catch him in time, and places him back on the corner with a small, loving pat.

"Do you have any. . . ANY idea. . . exactly the amount of paperwork is required to get all of this information together? How many nights I'm going to have to spend copying data file after data file, and then asking the shady assholes for their deep dark secrets, and then threatening to fire said assholes when they won't cooperate, and then actually firing half of them when they just won't budge."

"Your life is a travesty, Shelly-O-Mine."

"You're telling me. So I had to get Erickson to give me your trial process notes on the whole KSTT project so far."

"It's not really android tech, though."

"Yeah, but if they find out we're blurring the line between human and android just a bit, they might get the same kind of cataclysmically pissed they did with the RK, so orders from the top are to just give them everything, black out as much as we can possibly get away with, and be done with it once and for all before they bankrupt us with litigation."

Anthony rolls his eyes, and smirks as she gets up, rant finished.

"If anyone can do it, it's you my darling."

She squints and sticks out her tongue, starting to pace away towards the bay doors that lead back to the elevator.

"Just because we French kissed one time in high-school, doesn't mean I'm going to go out with you."

"So I'll pick you up later, seven o'clock? Speaking of the tongue-language of love, I'll take you to that fancy French Bistro downtown that you keep talking about."

Shelley pauses, badge on the door, almost walking through. She backs up a few paces, and slowly turns.

"You. . . You, have a reservation, at _Le Fenestre Saffron_? Tonight?"

He sticks up one finger, asking her to pause, and digs around at his cluttered desk, pulling out two gleaming tickets, red and gold around the edges.

"Won em' in the weekly raffle."

"Holy _shit_."

"So, it's a date?"

She chews on her lip a moment, round cheek dimpling slightly while she mulls over the offer.

". . . Ok, fine. You're on, Popovich."

The heels turn round a final time, and she swipes her badge once again, before passing the threshold out into the hallway beyond. She throws a final sentiment over her short bob and padded shoulder before she disappears entirely.

"AND YOU'D BETTER PICK ME UP ON TIME."

"Ok, ok, I promise."

Anthony watches her as she rounds around the corner, round, appled figure swaying gently underneath the burgundy and cream hugging her sides. And then he remembers that it's way, _way_ too early to get all horny before he's worked through a million miles of ones and zeroes.

He sighs a bit, takes another sip of the now depressingly empty cup, and starts to type away, wishing both him, and Nate, all the luck in the universe.

And seriously?

One of them really, _really_ had to get laid.


	13. Burn, Baby, Burn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My eyes burn. This chapter. It's a doozie. Take care.

If one could possibly imagine a tenth, additional damning circle of hell, outside of the nine that Dante had so graciously thought of back in the year 1314, what potentially comes to mind? An unfathomable, chernobogan mire ruled by a god made from flames, atop a smoldering kingdom?

Or, perhaps what comes to mind is more simple. _Classic_ , even; brimstone, and a great, fetid vapor, oozing forth from the bowels of the Earth between cracked little passages, running deep into the core where they berth amongst the tortured, anguishing souls receiving their eternal punishments.

Or maybe, more specifically, one could bear in mind the of the process of burning itself. Flesh slowly peeled back from skin, and muscle, seared black and sizzling, and when the bone is finally exposed to the surface, you begin the process all over. New flesh, new muscle covers you again, and again, only to be flagrant once more, and every waking moment is an inflamed agony that you wouldn't wish on your worst enemies.

Perhaps, for some, you would think of a recursive memory. A nightmare, rather. A tortured, cyclical wheel of reliving a single event. A heinous moment of your life when something was so wrong, or so foul, or so unimaginably loathsome that the mere thought of being trapped in those seconds, for an eternity, would surely make you go mad by the third time it came round the sun once again. And you realize that Satan's indemnity to his cause is far stronger than you could have ever believed.

If any of these things come to mind, one certainly has within them a feeling of terrorized trepidation. And that if such a place of horror, and grotesque suffering truly existed, its machinations are so beyond comprehension that you simply can't bring yourself to contemplate the matter any longer.

Do you have your own personal hell in mind?

Well, if you're able to vaguely, crudely, barely approach a notion of any of the scenarios above described, you may _possibly_ begin to understand how it feels to be an employee of the Detroit Police Department, Precinct 13, District 4, during the holiday season colloquially known as 'Hell Week.'

The second that Nate had arrived back at the precinct, stepped out of the auto-taxi, and noticed the snaking line of bleeding, broken, and royally pissed citizens weaving forth from the bowels of the DPD lobby, he knew that Anthony had been more than correct in his assumption that now? Right _now_?

Was the worst possible time to add any more flame and kindling to the proverbial fire.

When his soles hit the lobby floor, it was widespread chaos from then on.

Day 1 had been unceasing. _Relentless_. Wave after wave of the beginnings of the 'petty crime' portions of the week, where shoplifters, those who were stolen from, and those who were hurt in last minute rampages into stores and shops, flooded into the station to file report after report for the wrongdoing.

_"This lady just ran up to me! Cold-cocked my daughter right on the head! All because she was holding some princess doll, and it was the last one, and she 'just had to have it' for her own bratty kid. Well, mine's going to need stitches now, thank you very much!"_

_"Caught this guy smuggling fifteen goldfish out of the pet store from under his shirt. FIFTEEN! He didn't even put them in water, just stuck his hand right in and tried to sprint out of the place with them stuffed in his pockets! What the hell is wrong with this guy?!"_

That particular incident caused Connor to leave a few choice dents in and around their desks. Nate had to talk him down from the ledge when he insisted on hunting the fish-bandit down that very instant.

Mental note: never come between an RK-800 and an animal in need.

Day 2 had been no less excited, and much of the same. They were already feeling the fatigue of the necessary sixteen-hour double shifts, and by the time that Nate and Connor had managed to catch a short round of stasis in the android break-room upstairs (most officers who drew the short straw on Hell Week duty simply didn't leave the precinct for some number of days due to the sheer number of cases, androids included), they both wondered how in the world their circuits would remain soldered through the next few days.

When they both languidly trudged upstairs for a short respite, Connor apologized profusely for not giving Nate enough of a warning as to exactly the sheer volume of issues they'd need to parse.

Nate would have laughed at the fact that he'd already been doing it for the past twenty-something years, and was more than aware, if he wasn't so absolutely exhausted already.

Day 3, it was Nate's turn to almost stalk out of the precinct to hunt a criminal down, he was so enraged. A woman and her daughter, around twenty, had walked in, the young girl crying her eyes out. Between the sobs, she'd explained that she had been at a college fraternity rager, dressed as an elf, when an unidentified classmate masquerading as Santa Claus had sexually assaulted her from under the white beard and red suit. And then another Father Christmas had joined in right after.

And then another.

No one had tried to help her when she called for help, because they were all to high on Red-Ice in the back, or piss-drunk, or simply didn't want to get involved and ruin the 'holiday spirit.'

She bawled her eyes out, and said that she had a full ride scholarship, and was terrified to actually file the report in case it got her into trouble with the school. Nate had made it all the way out of the garage door before Connor reminded them that they didn't have a name, or a lead, and there were too many suspects for them to handle right now. It was going to take time, and they didn't have that luxury at the moment.

"I promise you we won't forget about her, because I'm just as angry as you are. But we need to hand it over to the sex crimes division, and there's been at least five other cases that sound exactly the same. That girl doesn't deserve anything less than someone's full, undivided attention, and we can't give her that right now."

So Nate had begrudgingly admitted he was right, and nearly ruined a rotor in his arm taking his anger out on a sign-post in sub-level two.

He made sure the thing was completely illegible from the full brunt of his fists before he found the patience to go back in.

Day 4?

. . .

_You don't want to hear about day four._

. . .

Day 5, the actual advent of Christmas Eve, was a short lull in the activity, as per the norm. On the Eve, and day of Christmas, there was a bit of a wane in activity as the people of Detroit mostly found themselves with family, or at parties instead of the mad holiday dash, which was more of a hospital emergency room type situation, rather than one requiring the assistance of the DPD.

Typically, the officers who hadn't abruptly quit, or begun refusing to show up, would take a few hours, crack open some spiced rum, and have themselves a little toast to their misfortune and misery in the back, Fowler joining in. Precinct tradition.

So on that night, around 7:00pm, they finally had a more than twenty minute gap in precinct activity. A few officers began breaking out those aforementioned glasses, stalking to the back of the station, and there was a blessed lack of anyone crashing through the doors. Nobody screaming and hollering, nobody dying on the floor, so the new dynamic duo took a moment to simply--

"Implode. I think I'm going to literally implode."

Nate hurls the sentiment out into the air above him, throwing his hands up in a vague bomb-like gesture, groaning. Connor half-chuckles at the remark, and rubs his own hands thoroughly across his face, attempting to scrub away the distended blue bowls that had seemed to become a permanent fixture underneath his eyelids.

"Seriously. If you find me plugged into the wall, and there's smoking, and a faint smell of burned toast wafting into the air, just put me out of my fucking misery and let me _fry_."

They were tired. They were a little bit cranky. They were somehow holding it together, but barely. Connor's tired grin stretches a little bit further while Nathan mimes a grenade toss, and rocks back in his own chair before finding the will to speak again.

"If you decide to act and choose sweet release from this mortal coil, let me know, and I'll join in with you, burnt toast and all."

Nate laughs at his desk, practically sparking, and lightly surprised. Considering the gallows humor used, that is.

It seemed that despite the onslaught of disaster being hurtled at them, Connor was apparently still feeling good enough to crack a joke or two amongst the tidal wave.

In fact, Connor had noticeably opened up somewhat over the past couple of days. They were communicating at a level that was anything but frigid and awkward, working in tandem at a continually agreeable pace. For all intents and purposes, it seemed that Nate's little plan to loosen Connor up at the Majestic had worked like a charm. If you'd have asked, both androids would have admitted there was a steadily growing air of friendship and camaraderie blossoming between them over the past few days.

And things hadn't been awkward when Nate had come back in that first morning, Connor none the wiser to the shutdown. The good mood from the prior evening had clearly carried over.

On the 20th, they'd simply met at their desks, asked each other if they were ready for this, and when they both answered with a simultaneous 'no,' even more of the awkward air that had existed between them prior dissipated amongst the stale coffee and shoe-polish.

They hadn't caught scent of it again.

He and Connor had, frankly, been working even better than they had before in the past few days. In all honesty, in some ways better than their old Dynamic Duo as Detective and Lieutenant, if that was even possible. They had a solid rhythm down pat, and it was the only reason why they weren't immediately and catastrophically _fucked_ from day one.

But across the way. . .

Reed, on the other hand, was experiencing his first Hell Week sans Nines. He'd grown used to finally having a partner before, and now that he had to face the holiday season alone again? He was absolutely swamped. Typing the reports, taking the notes, interviewing, wrestling agitated persons to the ground, the whole nine yards.

Nate could swear there was a greater number of sounds that could be described as 'sniffling' or 'crying' wafting out of the break room at regular intervals.

One could almost feel sorry for the guy, going it alone.

If he wasn't Gavin Reed, that is.

More specifically, if he wasn't such an absolute bastard-man.

Hey, what can you do? Christmas spirit only goes so far.

But with each passing day, it seemed more and more likely that he and Connor would possibly finish on a high note once the 31st rolled around.

If they could make it.

As far as Nate could tell, he and Connor were trending towards the 'best friends' outcome of Hell Week instead of the self-imploding one, which was a relief on more levels than one.

In all honesty, things had never worked this well, even before.

Last Christmas, back when he was still Lieutentant Anderson, they had barely managed, in truth. Hank had just about fallen asleep a dozen times in the middle of the afternoon, and at one point had spilled about three cups of coffee on his desk, ruining files, and frying his terminal, leaving them with only Connor typing reports and taking information as fast as humanly possible while Hank did all of the interviews. When Connor had asked him to be more careful, Hank had shouted back that he was 'sorry he wasn't a perfect piece of plastic,' and to 'give him a fucking break.' 

He regretted the words as soon as they'd left him, of course, but Connor was seething, and the next few days were hell.

It was the first time they'd fought in a long while, and it made the whole week awful.

Furthermore, they ended up completely skipping the office 'end of Hell Week' congratulatory party on the 30th that always takes place, neither wanting to ruin each other's time. 

He'd always felt guilty that Connor had missed it, especially since it was the first time he'd have been able to go. There was always horrible karaoke of some kind, and all the non-duty officers usually got so drunk that they got up to all sorts of nonsense.

Spray painting lewd messages on each other's personal cars, sabotaging desks with exploding confetti, handcuffing some poor sap in their chair, and sticking a party hat on them until first shift got there the following morning to let them out.

Which was the most _sacred_ of the traditions.

But this year, they really hadn't had cross word or 'fuck you' between them so far, and now, on the 24th, they apparently had progressed to the 'sardonic joking about just killing myself to avoid this whole debacle' portion of the holiday season.

And speaking of which, with all the killing yourself business. . .

They'd frankly been so busy that Nate had found little opportunity to use some of those questions Anthony had thought of, to try and get a read on Connor's direction for how they should proceed with the 'Nate/Hank' issue.

This little twenty-minute break was really the first time they'd had a long enough moment to breathe. He almost felt bad, feeling the need to fill it with some potentially horrible question and answer session. But while they both sat there, rubbing at their tired faces, he figured it'd be a good of a moment as any, because they may not get another one any time soon.

Plus, since Connor had smirked into the stale evening air, and cracked that joke about Nate offing himself and taking Connor with him, he figured a few things:

One, that if he was willing to imply he'd join in at an activity, he likely felt their partnership was strong enough to weather a personal question or two, now.

And two, that if he was willing to include death and dying in a form of humor, maybe it was okay for Nate to bring up said question as it pertained to Hank being gone.

Maybe.

While Nate muses internally about exactly how to begin broaching the subject, Connor stands, and stretches leonine before gesturing to the break room beyond.

"Thirium is low. Can I get you anything?"

Nate feels a pang of content and happiness blossom within him at Connor's offer. A simple gesture, but it means that even in some small way, he cares. It's a start.

"I'll take one of whatever you grab."

"Right. I'll be back in a second."

He walks away behind them, and Nate's left with his thoughts.

Maybe the best approach would be asking him to compare this year to the last? Some kind of joking comment like, 'boy, this couldn't have been any worse, could it?' and let Connor segway into speaking on last year's tire fire if he liked.

Or, he could respond with 'no, nothing could make things worse than the way they are now,' and Connor could eviscerate him from the outside in in one fell swoop.

Yeah, that'll work.

Nate nods to himself, thinking that's a good angle, when Connor returns with two small cups, steam curling languidly above them.

"Thanks, Connor."

"It was no problem, Nathan."

He gets a brief flash of a weary smile along with the steaming hot beverage.

Connor gently sets Nate's cup down on the corner of his desk, and then settles back into his own. A comfortable silence mulls between them while they take their first sips. Nate takes a beat to feel the warmth emanating from the recycled plastic container, and savors a sip of the swirling blue inside, feeling the drink pool warmly under his chassis. A little bit of liquid courage.

He clears his throat, figuring it's now or never, and begins.

"So, uh. . . Hell Week? Not entirely what I expected. Don't think that this whole thing could have been any worse, could it have? I mean, the thing with the fish? Fuckin' _bizarre_."

That portion of the sentiment was entirely wholehearted, underlying motives be damned. Connor groans into his hands at the mention, and shakes his head slowly.

"Let's just agree to never speak about that particular asshole again."

He flashes yellow while rubbing at his temples.

Nate knows from past experience that Connor tries his hardest not to curse while at the workplace, if ever, really, so the vitriol in his voice must be serious if it warranted an overstep of 'good robot' protocol.

They share a brief laugh at Connor's candor, and he sets his own cup down, turning towards Nate with a contemplative look on his face. He drums his fingers a few times on his desk, that little quirk of his, before coming back to the as of yet unanswered portion of the question.

"As far as things being worse, per se. . .The sheer volume of walk-ins is on par with last year. . but you're right in saying the most strange persons in the city seem to have come out of the woodwork."

Connor shakes his head lightly, and a small smile creeps onto the corner of his mouth, just barely. Nate looks on, offering his undivided attention.

"It's kind of funny, really. My old partner used to think that either the best, or worst kind of things happen around the holidays. He had this idea that the universe aligned perfectly on them just to make people miserable. Birthday's, Christmas, Halloween. . . it didn't matter. If it was an occasion, or near one, you'd either have your best days, or your worst. It was kind of an inside joke, considering we typically had good days around them. Last year was a struggle for us, but. . . nothing was ever too horrible. He always said that if we waited long enough, we'd get our fair share of the truly bad."

Nate hums lightly, knowing all too well what he was talking about. Considering the underlying, secret machinations that'd just so happened to occur around Halloween with him 'dying,' and here they were at Christmas-time with things coming to a head, he was proven right yet again.

"Sounds like the old guy had a little bit of wisdom underneath his gruff, greasy exterior."

Connor raises an eyebrow, wondering slightly why Nate would have any impression in his head of his old partner. Nate quickly rebounds, realizing what the look means, an internal 'oh, fuck' thrown out in his head, scrambling a bit. He'd inadvertently implied to know more than would be considered normal in the situation.

Luckily, an excuse is easy. He knows the resident office gossip can't help but rag on every person he's ever met, and there's enough information that's been passed for Nate to think of a plausible explanation.

"I mean, have you heard Reed over there? Guy never shuts up about how much of a jerk he was, and even Chen joined in and said you'd spent the better part of a year kicking his ass, trying to get him into shape before he quit."

Connor's brow twitches just slightly at that, and Nate initially thinks he's bristling at his own half-bullshit answer. But what he gets is a much more timid, melancholic admission.

"He. . . didn't quit. . . well, he did, technically resigned, but he was ill. . . he died. Right around Halloween."

Connor huffs and shakes his head, colored a shade annoyed.

"Turns out he was right, I suppose. About the holidays? I had my own atrocities waiting just around the corner, after all."

Oh. They were going there already.

Connor starts to drum lightly on the desk again, pensive. Obviously trending towards a bit uncomfortable, but not seeming like he's angry. More like a trepidation-- a fluttering nervousness. He hasn't shut the line of questioning down, necessarily, and Nate thinks its sort of a preparatory emotion. Like he'd been expecting to be asked about the Lieutenant eventually, and now that it was happening, he knew it was time for the uncomfortable conversation.

Well then, this was the moment, as good as any. Any second now another wave of jerks could come crashing through the door, and he'd have to hope for another opening.

Time to take the plunge.

". . . Do you miss him?"

Connor freezes just slightly in his chair, tensing up, eyes flitting across the terminal in front of him. Like he's searching for an answer to the question, and he needs the thing to give him the right words. They sit there for a second or two, watching the comings and goings of the PD around them, before Connor begins in a more taciturn way.

". . . I do, sometimes. A lot of the time, actually. . . but it's sort of complicated. . ."

He pauses, almost like he's gone too far, too soon, and retracts just a bit.

"Do you know how we met?"

_Yes._

"No, I don't think so."

Connor grins reflexively, appled cheeks filling out while he walks through some old memory in his head. His LED flashes and sputters while it plays some movie where Nathan can't see. He wonders what part of their past he's recanting, aching to know what little quip or daydream he's internally referencing.

"I wasn't made like other androids, you know. I'm sure you're more than aware that I'm a specialized model, but it goes deeper than that. Back when deviancy was still an infant concept, barely that even, CyberLife manufactured me specifically to rectify the whole idea. I was number fifty-one, from a long line of previous failures. I was to find the deviant issue, whether it was a programming error, or malfunction, or some divine providence and just. . ."

He thumbs at the corner of his desk a bit, LED interspersing short bursts of crimson amongst the canary yellow.

". . . get rid of it."

Red, now. Just red.

"Tell them where it is, so they could squash it out, like an annoyance. A fly on the wall of CyberLife's greatness. A black stain, on their great and noble legacy. . . I met Elijah Kamski once, you know. . ."

Oh, didn't he.

"No, I didn't know that either. How well did that go?"

Connor barks a laugh, but there's little humor to be found.

"About as well as you can imagine, meeting a man that had the audacity to think himself a god. At least, that's how his demeanor came across. I don't think he'd reference himself that way, but the arrogance certainly matched. More than likely, he'd say he was the 'catalyst of an age.' I suppose he was, in a lot of ways. But in others?"

Connor's eyes flash upwards, meeting Nate's and now his LED joins him, briefly sanguine, for his own reasons at the recanting.

"He was just another human tyrant, in a long history of men who thought they were anything but ephemeral. Trying to leave a legacy behind, because no man, or android even, can live forever."

. . .

"While we spoke, he pulled out a gun, and motioned towards an RT600's head. He told me that he would help me with my mission, give me what I wanted, but only if she died. Only if I killed something he already knew was alive. He told me to make the call; my mission, or my humanity."

Nate already knows how the story goes.

"So, which did you pick?"

"I let her go. I got angry. I couldn't believe that the man in front of me, who wanted me to prove to myself that I was alive, would have asked me to commit _murder_. The partner you asked about? He had to practically drag me out of the house before I cold-cocked him myself. When I chose to spare her. . . I believe it was the first moment he unabashedly saw me as anything but a programmed killer. It might have been the first moment for myself as well, really. At least that I actively recognized. I don't know what your journey to deviancy was--"

How about 'non-existent?'

"But mine was rife with indecision. Choices, both good, and bad. I fought tooth and nail to adhere to my programming, but I was deviant for a long while before I even realized. Do you know what the voice of reason was, while all of that was happening internally, breaking through the middling fog of that latent programming hanging over me?"

He had a guess.

"It was Hank. The Lieutenant. . ."

Connor smiles, sadly, to himself.

"My partner."

His eyes look a bit glassy then, but no tear or sob spills over. It's just waiting, on baited breath, at the corner of his vision, like a ghost of a thing. When Connor speaks again, he's even quieter than before.

". . . My friend."

The door to the DPD opens, and they both pause, thinking that another wave of bull is about to wash towards them, but the young man that walks in simply greets an officer at the front, and they turn back towards each other.

"That's what I always. . ."

He pauses again. Nate leans forward a bit, rolling his chair closer so they can talk more privately, because he recognizes that the conversation is only going to get more difficult. Connor looks thankful, and they both relax a bit more. Nate's hanging off the corner of the desk while they both watch the life within the precinct absentmindedly, waiting on Connor to continue.

"It's. . . what, Connor?"

Connor takes a steadying breath, almost like he doesn't believe what he's about to say.

". . . It's what I always loved about him. The fact that he was good. _Decent_. Knew right from wrong, without hesitation. More than that, even. . . he was, well. . . Lieutenant Hank _fucking_ Anderson, and he was a _great_ man."

Nate hears every single word, but fixates on one, balances it upon the razors edge of his already fraying nerves, and his heart feels close to bursting.

_'It's what I always loved about him.'_

_Loved._

About ~~ _him._~~

About Hank.

There it was.

Plain as day.

"I admired his convictions. His strength, against the tide. How he looked me in the eye back then, a cold, callous machine in his original bearing, and didn't care about his mortality, or his own inability, because he knew what the right thing to do was, and he wasn't going to let me stray from that right thing without putting up a good fight. . ."

Connor shakes his head, and swings it down.

". . . without dying for it, even. . ."

Nate can't bear to look at him, his heart is so full. Of the admission, the fucking admission that Connor, really, truly, had loved him before, and the immediate concession that Hank was a good man.

Connor had always loved him, because he was a good man.

No.

Because he was _Lieutenant Hank fucking Anderson_ , and he was a _great_ man.

"We saved each other, more than once, by the end of it all. . . In ways other than just the physical sense. He had been lost for a long time, I think. Forgot who he was. Our partnership was invigorating. Reminded him he had more to do than sit in a bar, and drink the days away. Myself? I didn't know what to do after the revolution either, after Jericho. . . It didn't seem right to join Markus and the others, for whatever reason. But there I was, without directive or protocol, for the first time. The afternoon when I finally expressed that to Hank, how unsure I was, he just--"

Connor stops a moment and rolls his eyes, chuckling.

"--stopped stuffing his face with a burger for two seconds, and with all the condiments and accoutrement sticking between his teeth, just shrugged, and told me to just go back to what I was good at doing."

He knows. He knows every single second. The way Connor had been blushing, embarrassed to confess that now he was deviant, and free, and he didn't have a clue about where to go. Didn't have a path. Nate can taste the tang of the onion, and the smell of the crisp afternoon, and see the sunlight pooling around them underneath the umbrella, while he secretly hoped that Connor wouldn't ever leave his side.

Even then, already. He considered him inseparable. He already had accepted him as his new partner, and he'd be damned if he would give that up. It was the beginning of those small warm feelings, that would eventually bottle him up from the inside out, and burn him as they went.

But Connor doesn't know that he's got the scene playing in his own head, just the same, and the android continues on.

"He told me that he might just be a grizzled old man, and he might have killed too many brain cells between a whisky bottle and his own sheer ignorance, but if there was one thing he knew, it was that I was 'the best damn cop he'd ever seen, and it would be a crying shame to see me go.'"

Connor stills just a moment, sighing to himself, and slowly begins to shuffle around in the side of his desk. From it, out of the corner of Nate's vision, he sees a certain photo pulled. Worn, frayed, around the edges, a little relic of time in the age of digital everything. Nate knows that photo. He'd insisted on using his antique polaroid instead of something you couldn't really touch, because there was something special in the way you held those moments close to you. Call him a child of the 80s, but that kind of tangibility? It was special.

And he was right, because of the way Connor was cradling it now. The little black-backed square held delicately between his lithe fingers, gently thumbing the glossy picture on the front.

The two of them smiling, that same afternoon, after they'd gone back to the DPD and made Connor a detective; official. Connor held up his badge, and Hank grinned right beside him. Officer Connor RK-800, Homicide and Android Crimes Detective, effective January 12th, 2039.

As he looks down, Nate looks away, afraid that if Connor can see his face, he'll see the intense anguish, and sadness, and lack of verisimilitude, because he's just so close to breaking. So close to reaching over, and taking Connor's hand, and telling him that he fucking meant every word he said that day. He'd always meant it.

And that there hadn't been one moment. . . not one single, individual moment, where he'd ever thought the decision to stay a Detective was wrong.

But he can't.

He _can't._

While Nate sits there, close to breaking, Connor finally sheds the tear that's been waiting at the corner of his vision, and it drops. So heavy, so full of weight, and gravity, and a thousand different things, to land directly between them where they smile, in that frozen place in time.

Nate doesn't need his pinpoint hearing to know the moment that Connor finally lets it fall.

"So _yes_ , Detective. I _miss_ him. I miss him all the time. I miss his smile. I miss his voice, which was always low, and angry, and _passionate_. . . I miss his laugh, how he just barked, like his dog Sumo, and didn't care how loud he was, because exuberance for the sake of happiness was never something to compromise. . . I miss his cantankerousness, even, if you can believe it. He just gave it to people the way they deserved, didn't try and parse their every move, knew exactly what to say, and how to deal with people how they deserved, good and bad."

Another tear. Another blotch on that glossy little square.

"And you know what? That's why it _hurts_. That's why it hurt so bad when he left. He didn't turn that on himself, and I didn't get it either."

Nate's so very close to breaking.

"I didn't get that fair shake. I didn't get that Hank Anderson brand of honesty. I received a look, thrown out to me from the rear view mirror of the Behemoth, and the gift of the unknown. The best explanation I'd ever received was Fowler simply said 'he's sick, and he'll be back later.' That's the third thing I received: a _lie_. For whatever reason, they told him he was going to die, and instead of realizing that for two years I'd been there at his side, every day, and would do anything to be there with him at the end, he just. . ."

Connor throws up his hands, and they ball into fists when they return.

". . . left. Without a word, without an explanation. Do you know how that ruins you, Nate?"

Don't ask him. Don't ask him this.

He says nothing.

He can't say anything.

"Do you know what it feels like to have the man you love disappear, for months, and have your Captain tell you one day that that absence? The lack of HIM, in your life? It's _permanent_. It's _forever_. When he'd said he'd be back? It was a falsehood. And all the nights you laid awake, waiting for him to show up at work the following day? They were never going to happen. And he's just gone. . .and you didn't even get to say goodbye."

A single tear, out of Nate's left eye. He can't hold it in. He just can't anymore.

"I just wanted to hold his hand, while he fought against the darkness within him. No matter what it was. He'd always had demons, always struggled, you know? I pried a loaded gun out of his hands, more than one time. But you know what? I'd do it again. Any time. I would have been with him, through anything, because I loved him so _fucking_ much."

Nate feels like he might break apart at the seams, and a little warning flashes at the corner of his vision.

!WARNING! | STRESS LEVEL APPROACHING INADEQUATE PARAMETER // 68%!

He swallows, shaking lightly at Connor's side, and he can't even bring himself to contemplate how his reaction must look to the android. He just prays that he's lost in his own emotion so much that he can't see the trembling in his own hands. Thank fucking god the rest of the precinct is in the back, drinking that rum.

It was time.

It was time to ask him.

He doesn't know how he finds his voice. That fake, incorrect fucking voice, without that whisky-lilt that Connor had seared into his memory. It feels foreign on his synthetic tongue. Dread permeates every one of his pores. This is one of 'those' moments, that one only gets a few points in their lifetime. A witching. A fork in the way. The river beneath him is sundered into two, with no choice but to go down only one of the dual winding roads.

It was time.

"If you could talk to him again, tell him all of that yourself. . . do you think that you would?"

Connor doesn't seem to hear him at first, unflinching, but Nate knows he did. He knows better.

"What would you do if you could see him, one more time?"

There's a period of sixty or so seconds between them, filled with nothing but the idle chatter behind them, and the light scent of spiced alcohol wafting through the air. It feels distant, and conjoined just the same. They're the only two people there, in a room full of others. Giant, and small, all the same. Finite, and infinite. Beginning, and ending.

Time turns on a dime, and the face it lands determines their future.

Red string pulls.

It was time.

"I wouldn't."

Nate feels lightning shoot through him in his core. It eviscerates his entire being. It bathes him in fire, and heat, and white hot release, as the answer to the question he's been agonizing over for five days quickens in the air, and the Earth marches on beneath them.

Nate steals a glance back towards Connor, and his head is thankfully turned away.

"But you never got the chance to tell him any of that, did you?"

Connor shakes his head, hair falling in coiled little waves around his temples, so much longer now than he'd ever worn it in years prior. Nate hadn't really noticed the slight curl before, when he wore it so short. Sure there was the cowlick, but this was wavy, and delicate, and framed his face perfectly. He thinks he likes it this way. A little more wild, a little less cold, and calculated. A little more 'Connor.' A hint of charm, and a hint of wild, and just long enough on top of his head that it's excruciating to look at him without being struck by the thought of 'you are the most dazzling thing I have ever seen.'

Nate continues to look on.

No CyberLife issue jacket. No tie, no screwed up serial number noting that there had been fifty-one attempts at creating such a beautiful thing, before they'd finally stepped back in heaven, and decided that they had come too close to perfect, and needed to stop meddling before it was too late.

Well, it was already _too late._

It was too late, the moment that Connor had stepped into the DPD all those months ago.

They'd went too far the second they even _dared_ to make him.

As Nate muses to himself, Connor finally finds his voice again, and needs to clear his throat.

"No, Nate, I didn't get the chance to tell him. I tried. I did. I left him so many messages that first evening that his phone was full every day after that. I don't know if he ever listened to them--"

He did. Every one.

"--But I begged him to tell me what was going on. Offer some explanation, even if it was a lie, I just wanted to hear SOMETHING from him. The silence was worse than any falsehood he could have thought of."

Connor suddenly swings his fist out, and throws the little photo into the corner of his desk, where it slides underneath a stack of papers and detritus, out of sight.

"I was angry. More than angry, really. I was livid, all those months, before I knew. Fowler explicitly told me not to go to his house, because Hank was incredibly ill, and had specifically requested to be left alone, and the one thing he needed was to be taken care of by his doctors, and his nurses, so they could sort things out. I drove out there, once, took a taxi. I stood on the front porch, and almost used my key to go inside. I never did. I thought, 'what if you hurt him, if you go inside now?' 'What if exactly the thing he needs is you away, so he can find the strength to return?' What else was I supposed to believe? He wouldn't answer me, nobody had a clue what was going on, and the only thing I was told was to 'wait.'"

His fists clench, then, and Nate can hear the creaking of his chassis beneath the pressure.

"Well, I _waited_. That's for sure. I was an idiot, an absolute imbecile, and I _waited_ for him to come back to me. I put every ounce of trust I had in him, to be that man, that good, great person he always was, and get better, and come back through those doors. And he _didn't_."

Nate gulps beside him.

"He didn't, and he died. Do you know what I found, when I finally got to walk back through the doors of that house? That house that was full of life, and laughter, and almost every good thing that had ever happened to me?"

_Yes._

"No, I don't."

"I found nothing. I found nothing at all. Not a _note._ Not a _message_. Not an _explanation_."

Connor's fist starts to shake.

"And what I did manage to find? I found decay. I found rot. I found the smell of death, and old dog, and blood, and nothing but the lingering reminder that this would be the last, and final memory I would ever make inside of those walls."

_Oh, god._

"I found the gun, too. That Magnum, I'd told you about. I thought about it."

_Oh, god._

"More than once. I thought about sitting down, right there, on top of that filthy carpet, and just blowing my LED out the side of my head. For a few minutes, anything was better than being left with nothing but the realization that I was too fucking scared to let him know how I'd felt. I'd waited too long. And he was gone, and there was no ghost in those halls, so he never would know."

Oh, Connor. If only you knew.

"I carried that with me, every day, after October 23rd. I was already broken before that, but that day? I _shattered_. There wasn't anything I could do but somehow cobble myself together again, because at the end of the day, I didn't want to go in the same way that he did, leaving the people that care about me to wonder what happened."

Connor takes a steadying breath, and Nate's readout lists his stress in the high eighties. This is getting dangerous. It's getting too much.

"I just kept going. I kept going, and told no one what was going on, because how could I? Even my own brother could barely coax an explanation for my incessant rage. I only told Fowler about the gun one time. By then I'd already decided that was stupid, so it wasn't really an issue. But nonetheless, I just came to work, here, at this desk, and tried to run myself into the ground, because the last thing I wanted was Hank Anderson's legacy as one of the greatest officers at the DPD to falter, even for a moment. . .This was our beginning."

Connor swallows himself, and a bit of the shaking at his fist begins to wane.

". . . I thought it was fitting that he should be remembered as I saw him; a great man, who accomplished so much. And if that could happen, then one day, maybe, our legacy would be our end. . ."

Connor finally looks over again, and bores his eyes right into Nathan's, who is gazing at him with such an open look of sadness, that Connor is immediately brought back to the present.

"So no, detective. If you are asking me if I have it within me to go back, to relive those moments again, I'll tell you now that I _cannot_. And yet, if you think that it's all bad, that I'm only filled with that sadness anymore. . ."

He does. He _does_ think that, in a way.

"It's not the case. That rage? That anger at the lack of 'why?'. . . I woke up one day, and for the first time in a long time, I wasn't about to fall apart. I wasn't determined to come to work, just so I could push everything out, and refuse to address the emotions. I simply woke, and WAS. I was myself. A different android, than two years ago; some parts missing, some replaced, but I was still _myself_. No amount of divine intervention was going to change the fact that I still had to go on. Did the sadness still permeate? _Of course_. Did the anger still come back now and again? _Absolutely._ But at the end of the day, I realized something."

Nate can barely manage the words.

"What is that?"

"I would rather have had those two happy years. . . those days in the Ford, driving around downtown, screaming into the air, sharing our voices. . . the late nights, coffees, too much fast food, too much swearing for any one human being. . . I'd rather have all of that, and hold it within me as something good, and bright, and comforting, for a while, then learn to hate him."

He goes back to the right side of the desk, looking for the photo again, remembering that it doesn't deserve to be wedged into nowhere.

"You know, I read at one point that a lot of animals will go off to die, alone. They'll know that it's their time, and while it might be instinct, they spare their loved ones from seeing them expire. They simply find themselves a nice, cool spot, on this rock hurtling through the infinite universe, and sigh into the aether, and they cease to be. As someone who's died before, technically, in some gruesome ways, I'll say. . . there's a certain mercy in that. For yourself. For everyone else."

Someone at the little gathering behind them tells a joke, and a gruff laughter fills the station around them, cutting through the tension. Connor's shoulders don't seem so tight as they did a few moments before, and he sighs to himself.

"Life is _hard._ That's what I've learned these past few years. Being deviant, having purpose, being alive, and experiencing all of this--"

He gestures out to the DPD, and everything between.

"--Life is _hard_ ; that's why no one survives. That's why at one point, there's always a time to go. And Hank didn't have it easy. I think he had one of the harder lives you can receive. He lost his son, he lost partners prior, he lost family and friends. . . For as much as I cared about him, I don't know how he considered me, in those last days. Maybe just that friend, maybe a true partner, maybe . . . Whatever it was, I think that, in the end, it felt that just as the universe was giving him a nice, cool spot, to stay a while, without tragedy around him. But when he learned that it wasn't the respite that he was looking for, that it was finality, he was angry. And it scared him. Here he was, with a life that suddenly felt worth living, and there it _went_. So, when he found that cool spot, and laid himself down? It wasn't through malice, or hurt, or any other reason than the fact that he didn't know how to say goodbye, when he'd had so many others say those words to him before."

Connor finds the photo, and gives it a single, loving flick, right on Hanks nose, before returning it to the cork board, where it stands resolute. Next to the little chipped mug, stained black, on the inside.

"I think that's why he never called back. Why he didn't want to see me. I'd like to think that he cared so much, that he didn't know how to say goodbye."

The party behind them begins to dissolve, twenty minute break over, especially before they can pour another round of shots and compromise their sobriety. The officers start shuffling back to their places, and suddenly it isn't just Nate, and Connor, and their memories around them. Reed trudges along with them, giving Connor a short, signature middle finger before flopping back into his side of the DPD with a sigh.

Connor starts to stir next to Nathan, and he slowly rolls himself back to his place, Connor's old desk, their little place in this infinite universe.

As he turns back, Connor goes on again, a final, closing sentiment to the whirlwind of confessions he's just seared deep into Nathan's soul.

"If I could see him, today, right now, I think there's only one thing I would want to say; that I understand. That I understand why he had to go. That it hurt, and I wish that I could have held that hand. . . but I _forgive_ him. And I've moved on. I'll always hold those years within me, and for as long as my circuits are firing, I will never forget him. But I'm different now, and I always will be. And yet, I'm going to be okay. I would tell Hank, that he can go back to that cool, dark place he's found, somewhere out there in the cosmos, with peace, and release, and a sigh, and know that he never really needed to say goodbye. Those two years we had? That happiness, just for a little while?"

The door to the precinct opens, and the chaos comes in again.

"It was the only thing he needed to leave behind for me to know just how much he cared. And I've decided to keep going. I've got my brother. Always will. A lot of people still believe that androids can't have a family, but they're wrong. I have people who care."

Connor briefly snorts, and Nate jumps a bit at the noise, startled.

"You could probably even say that for as much as I dislike him, I've got Reed over there. He always asks how I'm doing. I used to think it was just for Nines sake, since it seems like that bewildering relationship won't be ending in anything but a white wedding, but deep in that pit of coal he calls a heart, I think he cares. _Shockingly_."

Almost as if he'd heard him, Gavin cocks an eyebrow at Connor from across the way and they briefly make eye contact. Connor uses the opportunity to flip him off, just as he'd done a minute ago. Reed rolls his eyes all the way back into his head, and settles back in to the woman who's just sat down next to him, with a small little grin on the side of his mouth.

"And you know what, Nate?"

He raises those steel grey eyes, unbridled and open. They meet a warm, blanketing brown. They mix together, they coalesce, they don't have any other thing in them but their reflections.

"I've got _you._ For a long while, I didn't think that the desk next to mine would ever be filled. I didn't want it to be. Do you remember that day, when I told you as much?"

"You mean the day I thought you went full Terminator and basically threatened to disown me if I annoyed you further? Of course I remember, second most scared I'd ever been in my short fuckin' life."

Connor laughs, a bit of the mirth returning to his disposition.

"Good, keep it that way, I like being in charge."

. . .

"But in all seriousness, I didn't want it to be filled. I thought that the crater Hank left behind was something so gargantuan, that anyone attempting to replace it would just be lost in his memory. But you?"

Connor's face changes. It starts off in that little half smile, his signature disposition, and turns downwards just a bit, at the corners. But none of the joy is gone from it, just emphasized with a bit of seriousness, at what he's about to say.

"You're not filling it. You're not trying to stand where did. The hole he left behind is. . . a memorial, and you respect that. You don't try and shove your way in, you just let me know that there's another path to walk on. I can always remember the impact that he had, but we're making something new, here. It's kind of funny. . . you remind me of him, in some ways. . . but you're completely your own android, and you're incredible in so many different ways."

A little bit of fire begins to dance within Connor's eyes. A little bit of fever.

"That night, at the Majestic? How we worked together? I mean, you did perform nothing short of inadequate initially, and very nearly screwed things up--"

_"HEY!"_

"But when we worked together, really? We were amazing. Unapproachable. _Unstoppable_. I don't know what it is, but when I think about the next year? The next ten? Next fifty?"

Next fifty? We're thinking in half-centuries, now?

"When I think about the future, I'm excited. I'm ecstatic. I feel. . ."

Reed's up from his desk, slowly pointing a train of about four women dressed as Mrs. Clauses over towards Nate and Connor's direction, with some kind of nun's habit poking out from underneath.

"Like everything is going to be fine. And you know what, Nate?"

"What, Connor?"

Anything. Ask him anything, and it'll be his.

"I want the universe to take that cold little corner, that place it has reserved for me, and you one day, and shove it so far up its proverbial ass that it comes back out the other side, and it chokes a slow death on its own plans. Because I am _alive_ , and you are too, and we are _here_. And the only way to go is forward. More than that? Because you and I? _We've got work to do_. And there isn't a known force in this, or any dimension, that can stop us from being the best _fucking_ Detectives that this precinct has ever seen."

Connor smiles. He winks, just once, and gets up from his desk, towards the women at the front, and leaves Detective Cole on his own.

Nate chokes back a sob. He barely, somehow, keeps back that small little sound, and catches it within him.

So, that was it, then. Here was the river, as it flowed beneath him, telling him where to go. It led towards many things, on the side that Connor had set them on. He had chosen, and fate was sealed. The course was charted.

Towards redemption. Towards a life that was new. Towards being able to finally, without reservation, let go of Hank Anderson, as a man that once was, not the person he had become. He can drift along in the waters, over days, over weeks, over months and years, and slowly let himself taste just a little bit of that 'I forgive you' that Connor had said with such conviction before.

Here it was, plain as it could be said:

It was time for Hank Anderson to finally go.

And while Connor steps back towards them, grandmothers, or nuns, or whoever the _fuck_ they were in tow, Nate feels that he's done something right, for the first time in a while.

Anthony must be some kind of all-seeing being, because letting Connor take the lead was precisely what he needed to do. They were on the same page. Nathan Cole was a new person, with his own convictions, and abilities, and Connor was more than happy to join him in this funny little thing called life, for however long he could, and make sure that they were both the best people they could be.

And why was that?

_Because Nathan Cole made Connor feel like he was alive, and here, and that everything would be okay._

He sits back down, and when Nate sees that he's still smiling, in spite of the fact that they're going to be taking this particular report for at least an hour, something burns deep within him.

He's so fucking _proud_ , of the person Connor is. There isn't another android, or man, or anyone else that burns so bright, on this place, in this time. How lucky. How absolutely _lucky_ he is, to be given the chance to come back to him, again, and how fortunate he is that Connor considers Nathan Cole important in his life, too. How--

"Are you alright, dear?"

"What, _what_?!"

Nate looks around, sputtering, clearly having been lost in his own mind as one of the grannies pats gently on his shoulder. His LED flickers lightly between yellow and blue, before finally settling back on that cerulean swirl, and they all laugh while he shakes the cobwebs from his mind.

"Oh dear, young man, it looks like you need more help than we do."

Connor just grins, and shakes his head, and gestures at Nate with one of those blinding little looks that never fail to take his breath out from under him.

"You have no idea, ma'am. But, he's my partner, and I wouldn't trade him for anyone else, even if he is a bit of an idiot sometimes."

"Yeah, yeah, so I take it you're doing the report on this one, then, _partner_?"

Connor cracks his knuckles emphatically, gesturing to the women to take a chair from the empty desks beside them, and rolls his shoulders. He glares up between those impossibly long lashes, and the little deviant in him burns Nate from the inside out.

"Oh, I think we'll find plenty of time for you to type while we pull double shift tomorrow, all day, don't you think?"

Fuck.

. . .

"Wait, who the hell are you calling an idiot?!"


	14. Merry Fucking Christmas

Sometime around 1:00am, December the 25th, Gavin Reed steps lightly out of the DPD, hands already freezing in the cold winter air. Despite the chill only hitting them for mere seconds, they're frozen to the bone, and he fervently wishes he were anywhere but where he currently was while he walks.

He's _tired_ , he's _cranky_ , and by _god_ did he need a cigarette before he ripped the head off the next person that dared to prevent him from heading home to his deliciously hot android boyfriend on Christmas.

He paces about fifteen steps until he reaches the side of the building and hangs a right, into the alleyway where they keep the prowlers under a corrugated awning. He steps gingerly over the ice-slick concrete, and takes his normal haunt along the Western wall. Fingers start to probe around in his pockets a bit, looking for a little green and white box, a lighter, and a fifteen minute break from the absolute fucking _insanity_ that has been the past four days.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ, I'm going to die."

He chatters to nobody but himself as those shaking hands pry a cigarette loose from the packaging, as white as the fresh sheen of snow dotting the ground around him.

"Seriously, I'm just gonna--"

He flicks the lighter once. Twice. Three times more, before the red little flame decides to perk up, and sears the end of the cig.

"--Keel over, and die."

He throws his head back, little white line hanging out of his mouth, and takes the deepest breath in that he can. The smoke fills his lungs, and his pores, and every molecule within him. It's hot, uncomfortably acrid, but it tastes like home. All in all, it's still the worst habit he could have possibly chosen back at age nineteen during his rebellious phase, but at thirty-something, he was committed. Nines still gives him an inordinate amount of shit about the whole thing.

_'Gavin, do you have any idea how much your risk of cancer increases every time you put one of those in your mouth?'_

_'I've calculated exactly how much money you spend on tobacco per paycheck, and we could finally afford that tropical vacation you want if you'd stop.'_

And his most personal favorite:

_'Fine, you don't have to quit altogether, but if you don't cut down to a half-pack per day, you can find some other android to do that thing with their tongue that you like.'_

Of everything, that was the comment to get through his thick skull.

Of course it was.

So here he was, on Christmas Day, huffing cigarette number five out of six, hoping the buzz can carry him through the next hour of double shift until he can head home. Even though he's exhausted, and his nerves are frayed, he finds that on this particular holiday, it feels sort of nice to know someone cares. To nobody's surprise, Gavin Reed doesn't usually have people worrying over him. Not altogether unlike the poor saps he's been listening to all week. It's been day in and day out of fielding every possible issue for folks who obviously either don't give a single shit, or don't have anyone to do that for them, so even if it was annoying as hell to be nagged about the smoking?

It still felt kind of good to get that special treatment.

Even if the smoke has started to feel just a little tinged with guilt on the way down lately, he's begrudgingly content to know someone like that is out there.

What he's summarily NOT thankful for this holiday season, is the distinct lack of android ass sitting in the desk next to his, with a placard that says 'Detective Nines, RK-900.'

Instead, said ass was halfway across town, probably sipping on a tall glass of alcoholic thirium, getting just a little bit tipsy while he waited on Gavin to--

"No, god, don't think about your probably (hopefully) naked boyfriend waiting at home, you still have an hour until you can pop a holiday boner, dude."

He smacks himself a bit, barely feeling the sting on his cheeks in the sub-freezing air.

But still. . . if only Nines were here. Maybe then he'd actually feel like he wasn't drowning.

It's been a hard year overall for the detective, and that sentiment is on the forefront of his mind while he stands there, freezing his balls off in the December snow, thinking wistfully about how he wishes someone will go find him another shiny new partner so he never, EVER has to go through Hell Week again alone.

He thought he could do it. Really, he did. But after the past few days?

"Frickin' tin-can."

He takes a long, languid drag, and shimmies up and down to keep the feeling in his arms.

"Frickin' Hell Week."

Maybe he really should listen to Nines for once in his life and take a heavier coat with him to work.

"Frickin' tin-can two and his sidekick Detective _Nathan fuckin' Cole_."

Now _there_ were a few DPD employees who didn't look nearly as pitiful as he felt.

Gavin wasn't the kind of man to admit that he was jealous --even if the emotion did make up around half of his personality-- but if you would have asked him, he may have hinted at some vaguely similar sentiment. God. . .It was almost scary the way he'd barged in a few weeks ago, hamming it up with EVERYONE in the department, and how they all fell right on that tight little ass like flies on honey.

And it wasn't like he was an exception, either.

Because he did have to admit. . .

_It was a pretty nice ass._

Long-term boyfriends would agree, no question.

'Speaking of which,' he thinks to himself, huffing that little cigarette into an ashen nub before immediately clawing out number six, the final of the evening.

Nines hadn't met the guy, had he?

Connor's first partner since. . .

Well, you know.

Not so secretly over the past little while, Gavin had been doing his best to relay updates on Connor's situation to Nines whenever he could, because his brother frankly worried him to death the past few months. Things had been. . . rough, for a while. But usually there wasn't anything monumental to report. Just the same old grief and coping, or lack thereof. Day in, day out. 

The occasional thing, like Connor's summary grounding the month prior, was all he really had to tell lately, besides the never ending moping, and his pissed off little attitude.

Don't get him wrong; he actually likes the kid, admittedly. Nobody could really hate Connor once they got to know him. He was unequivocally charming like that. And for fucks sakes, even he understood that Hank up and dying on everyone was a bitch to deal with all around. He missed the bastard for chrissakes, even if they had butt heads for the better part of a decade.

But Connor had taken it. . . bad. Real fuckin' bad. Probably worse than anyone else. He and Nines were likely the only few who really knew that, considering they were the ones to find him with a gun to his head back in October. Shit, it was like he had died himself right along with the old geezer.

If he had to guess, some small part of Nines will always be afraid that when he picks up the phone, it'll be a call saying something terrible has happened.

They'd been lucky, so far.

But still, half the time Gavin could swear another android had just taken over Connor's mind, and forced the old, cheerful tin-can 2 into some digital oblivion. He hadn't been right in. . .

Well, since August, honestly.

But these past few weeks? Ever since Detective Cole had waltzed onto the scene?

Things had changed.

He was. . . different. Better. The bags under his eyes were a little bit brighter.

Excluding the past few days, of course.

Gavin takes another long, searing drag, and scuffs his shoe against the brick wall, thinking.

Connor wasn't trudging into the station every day, out of his mind, in some little internal black hole. Gone were the days where he looked about ready to strangle everyone that bothered to come within a two foot radius of him.

Sure, the new guy had gotten that treatment when he'd first arrived, but. . .

Hell Week looked good on the partnership that was Connor and Nathan Cole.

Didn't matter how many people showed up at their desk, they rifled through the cases like a couple of regular bats out of hell. Gavin can't even remember Connor and Hank handling Hell Week that well in the past, and considering they were usually lauded as some of the best Detectives the department had seen, that was saying something.

But more than any of that, work ethic put completely aside, there was one thing that Gavin had seen that had made him do a double-take, just a few hours before.

Connor had smiled.

Really, genuinely, ear to ear SMILED, right at the guy, without a singular fuck who saw, or what anybody thought.

And that, right there, was something to report.

He starts to fish his phone from his pocket, still shaking, still freezing, but not quite ready to head inside and face the final hour until freedom. And who cared if there were icicles on his balls, there was still half of cigarette six in his mouth, and he was going to enjoy it goddamn it.

Call him dedicated, if nothing else.

He punches the contact for 'Schnookums,' and the line rings two times, before a low voice comes on the other line.

_"Gavin Theodore Reed, if you don't get your ass home within precisely 68.2 minutes I'm going to come over there and drag you out of that hellhole myself. Trust me, I calculated your time to cycle home, and I'm going to be counting."_

Leave it to Nines to immediately cheer him up with a mild threat. He genuinely smirks, the first time all day, and rubs a hand nonchalantly over his tired eyes.

"Hey, babe."

_"Hi yourself. . . Judging by the grating tone of your voice, I take it we're on cigarette number seven for the evening, then?"_

The absolute synthetic cojones on this guy.

"NO, thank you very much, I'm on six of six and that's all it's gonna be, even if I have fled my husk of a shell as a human, and am currently phoning you from the afterlife. Jesus and Freddie Mercury say hello. You want me to put them on the line?"

Nines laughs, low, sanguine, DEFINITELY a little bit tinged with that syrupy lilt it gets when he's downed a few shots, and the sound sends static down Gavin's spine, even in the bite of the cold.

_"No, I believe that's unnecessary. But you really should head out soon, I don't think the tires on your Triumph are going to agree with an additional inch of snow."_

"I thought they said it was fuckin' done snowing yesterday?!"

_"Mm, they apparently changed their mind. Some destitute child made a wish for a white Christmas, and the heavens will deliver in approximately 1.44 hours."_

"Fuck me, this just keeps getting better."

_"Well, if you'd get home already, that was the plan, dear."_

Jesus Christ, someone just kill him, because if they don't the cold, or the completely unmissable bulge in his pants will.

"Nines, you know how it is, these chumps'll chain me to my desk before letting me leave prior to the end of the double."

_"Hmm. . . yes, I do remember a decent amount of horrible, uncouth decision making in that precinct."_

Boy, didn't he.

"I PROMISE, I will leave at 2:00 on the dot, precisely."

_"I'll hold you to that. I'm half clock, didn't you know? Just upgraded the chassis this morning. It's your Christmas present."_

And there are the goofy little android jokes he likes to make when tipsy. Gavin snorts, feeling halfway like he could cry, he misses Nines so much. 

"Speaking of halves, I have an update on your brother."

_". . . Is he all right?"_

Nines shuffles a bit on the other line, suddenly serious, Gavin assuming he's sitting up on their couch where he'd probably been lying.

_"Without Anderson, I mean. I was honestly expecting you to call me two or three days ago with sour news, I'm a shade surprised it took this long."_

"Actually, that's not why I called. He's doing fine. Really. Seems fuckin' _jolly_ , even. I dunno what happened. Last time I could wrangle him for a convo it seemed like he halfway hated the guy's guts, and this week he just. . . He's. . ."

_"He's what?"_

Gavin thinks a moment, trying to summarize exactly the change in behavior in the two minutes of break he's got left.

"He smiled today, Nines."

The android makes a noise on the other line, half in surprise, half concerned, but certainly needing to know more. Gavin continues.

"Yeah, I'm not shitting you. For a second there it was like I saw the old tin-can shine through that creepy fuckin' depression cloak he's had on the past five months. Was doing the Holiday Hell Week toast with the boys in the back like we always do, and when I walked back, there he is, taking info from some old fuckin' nuns, and he's got this goofy ass grin on his face, staring right at Cole like he's the goddamn light of the sun."

_"Last time I spoke with him, he'd said he still wasn't plussed about having another partner."_

"Yeah, you're telling me. But seriously babe, it's. . . different."

A timer on Gavin's phone buzzes in his ear, letting him know break is up, and it's time to go.

"I dunno what the fuck happened there but. . . You're gonna think I'm crazy, and I swear I'm not, I just. . . I think he _likes_ him."

Gavin throws his cigarette butt in a recycling bin, and begins to trudge back inside, slow as he can manage.

_"You mean, he seems to be getting along with him as a partner and unit?"_

"No, actually, I kind of mean. . ."

Gavin side-steps, narrowly missing some poor delivery boy who obviously pulled the short stick on Christmas shift as he sprints out of the DPD doors.

"Look, am I the single most gay human being in the history of the universe?"

_"You're in the running, I'd wager."_

"Right, so what I'm telling you? Right now? He's got a _thing_ for Cole."

_"He has. . . a thing? For a partner he's had for. . . three or so weeks?"_

"Hey, believe me or not, but the ol' gay-dar is ringing off the fucking charts, I'm not joking. Is it fucking bewildering considering the timeline? Yeah, you bet your ass. Nonetheless, I'm telling you, something's going on there. I dunno if he even realizes it, but I can sure as fuck tell considering the fact that nothing on god's green goddamn Earth has broken through that scowl he's had on for a half-year. And furthermore, I dunno if Cole is the world's most oblivious fuckin' idiot, or what, cause he sure as shit doesn't realize he's giving it right back to him either, but I swear on my mother to you, Connor hasn't looked at someone like that since--"

_"Since he spent two years secretly in love with his other partner, and stared at him like the sun shone out of his ass?"_

"Yeah, that. Exactly that."

Nines makes another noise, and Gavin makes his way past the turnstile, seeing that the aforementioned ass-in-question and Connor are off somewhere else at the moment, much to his luck. Nonetheless, as he takes a seat, Gavin keeps his voice low in case they meander by, and starts to log back in to his terminal. He wishes, yet again, that Nines were here so he could see exactly what he's talking about. Hey, if he'd been told the same thing with a month long gap in seeing his brother, he'd probably be skeptical as well.

Not that he and his brother even, well, _talked_ , but whatever.

Just then, an idea comes to him. Just a devious little thought that springs into his brain as he looks at his calendar where it's pulled up on the side.

"Hey, I'm back inside so I gotta go soon. Seriously, I think you need to see Connor, talk to him. . . the 31st? You think we should. . .?"

_"Connor told me he wouldn't come by last we spoke. Do you really think he'd--"_

"I think he would now. Like I said, something happened."

Nines lightly sighs on the other end, and Gavin can hear ice faintly clinking around in a glass as he swirls it around, no doubt mulling over the proposed plan.

_"I still don't know. . ."_

Gavin pulls up his email, quickly typing out an access code, and before Nines can make another noise on the other end, hits 'send' with an emphatic smack, delaying delivery until after he leaves in thirty minutes.

"Well, too bad if you don't know, I did it anyway."

_"Gavin--"_

"Just let the master work his magic, babe, I'm telling you I know em' when I see em.'"

Suddenly, Connor and Nathan round the corner again, chatting amongst themselves while Cole holds something small, and square in his right hand. In the left, there's a lightly crumpled heap of freshly torn, shimmering wrapping paper, and Gavin smirks to himself as they make their way back to their respective stations. They sit down, roll into their desks, and from Gavin's angle, he can see that they're both cheesing, mile a minute, trying to hide the fact that they're both cherry-red in the face while they smirk to themselves from behind the safety of their terminals.

Oh yeah. He's right.

"Trust me, sweetheart. I think I know what I'm doing here."

Nines huffs on the other end, and Gavin can hear the dregs of whatever is in his glass slide out and down his throat.

_"Fine, fine, I trust you."_

"Sweetheart, when have I ever steered you wrong?"

_". . . Are you asking me to actually count out that standard, because I don't think we have the appropriate three hour window for that discussion at the moment."_

"Yeah, yeah, love you too."

_"Be safe, please, coming home. I'd like you back in one piece."_

"Nines, my light, my life, my robot love, safety is my middle fuckin' name."

_"Since when do you spell 'safety' as a-s-s-h-o-l-e?"_

Gavin chuckles, and sits back in his desk chair, feeling smug as can be, thumbing the end-call prompt on his phone before Nines can further retort. He places his hands on the back of his head, and he begins to drift off into another round of daydreaming until he can finally blow the joint, when he feels the vibration of a text come through. No doubt Nines trying to one up him playfully considering he'd just sent an email that could potentially ruin their New Years Eve. He picks up the phone from the desk where he'd set it, and unlocks it to the messaging screen. It's Nines again.

_'And seriously?'_

Another buzz this time. The app is already up, so the photo that comes through immediately opens on his screen.

It's. . .

Absolutely not something that Gavin wants one of the beat-cops spying in his hands, because he doesn't need a fourth lecture from Fowler on dick pics in the PD this year, so he quickly shoves it back down to the desk, red as a twinkling little Christmas light. The phone chimes one more time before he clandestinely takes a peek, and slides it back into his front jacket pocket.

_'Hurry the fuck up.'_

Gavin can't seem to shake the blush from his cheeks while the minutes roll on, and he tries to make himself busy, and NOT thinking about. . .

Eventually, he just accepts how ungodly horny he is, and just makes sure his shit is ready to fly out the door, the second the clock rounds down. After about fifteen more minutes of mindlessly fucking around with random shit at his desk, he's about to crawl out of his skin.

Time literally cannot move fast enough.

But then, before he knows it, the clock strikes 2:00am, and while he practically sprints out the door, he looks back over towards the two Detectives across the way, and wonders if what Connor gave Cole was half as good as what Nines is going to give him.

Well, whatever the hell they're smiling about over there, Gavin knows, for once in his life, he's probably got it beat.

Merry fuckin' Christmas Gavin Reed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little behind the scenes expositional interlude featuring the world's biggest idiot.


	15. White Winter Hymnal

"Merry Christmas, Nathan."

Connor taps his partner lightly on the shoulder, finding him currently hunched over in a tired little heap on one of the break room chairs next to the thirium steamer.

It was late, around one in the morning, and to say they were tired was a far gone understatement. They'd been taking a short break, each preparing themselves for the final three hour stretch of Christmas Day double-shift, Nate opting to grab both of them yet another supplemental cup of blue-blooded joe. Their circuits were veritably fried after another day of every problem Detroit could possibly throw at them, and they desperately needed the grace period of the rest of the holiday proper off come 4:00am.

Connor was halfway expecting to see Nathan in shutdown when he'd lightly rapped on his trapezius, considering the way he was slumped over in the chair, but he startled to quickly enough at the gesture with a short little 'what, I'm awake, I'm awake.'

It sets a small, endearing smile on Connor's lips. Those kind of reactions were just another one of those things that Nathan did that made him seem so unique. So alive. Connor had grown fond of them over the past few days, and this was no exception. Slowly, his partner begins to lift his weary eyes up to the man behind him, and they widen just a bit when they spy Connor with a box in his hands.

He gets a sort of scrutinizing look on his face, eyebrows furrowing into a questioning gesture, almost like he can't believe if the scene before him is real, or a vision conjured in his internal matrix, induced by lack of regular stasis. Connor chuckles, simply shaking the box up and down to say, 'yes, Detective, we are indeed engaging in festivities, so wipe the proverbial crust from your eyes.'

Connor has a small little rectangle in his hand, tied up in gleaming gold wrap with a green and red bow, perfectly centered. Edges pristinely folded. Magazine quality. Like he'd practiced a few times, just to make sure things were right.

And in fact, he had, if anyone would care to ask.

It may not have seemed like it to someone who didn't know him, but Connor had a bit of a thing for holidays, and days of remembrance. Maybe it was a sentiment that had rubbed off from Hank's old cantankerous holiday superstition, or maybe it was just him. But it just felt right to celebrate every holiday he could, and banish some of that ill will that the Lieutenant had riffed about. The man had never been one to ask for gifts, or care for doting, but nonetheless, Connor would always show up on the appropriate holiday with some form of offering in hand, varying degrees of thankfulness ensuing.

Plus, Connor just loved the feeling of throwing someone off kilter with a small gesture.

Call him a deviant.

And it would appear that his partner was no exception to the usual standard reaction he received on these occasions.

Nate's giving him somewhat of a similar look to what Hank used to offer now, like the box was on fire, and he'd spontaneously combust if he dared to touch something that was an amicable gesture.

_Partners._

Can't live with them, can't live without them.

Besides, Connor had summarily neglected the past few calendar days for such festivities, lost in that depressed stupor, and he wanted to make things right with his internal inclination and begin the tradition again. And what better way to begin again than at Christmas?

Between the multiple shifts throughout the week, he had adamantly promised himself to think of something worthwhile for Nathan; the first little gift in what he hoped would be a long line of holidays to come.

And the world wasn't going to ruin another one for him, ever again. That was his resolve.

Plus, Nathan truly deserved a gesture of good-will considering the amount of good they'd managed to do these past few weeks.

The fact that they'd practically swept every other officer out of the water the past few days with how many walk-ins they'd fielded? How they finally were working with real cadence, and rhythm? It just reaffirmed Connor's feeling that something about the Detective was unique, and he wanted to make sure he could make amends for his prior attitude towards him.

All in all, he hadn't given Nathan a fair shake. That much was obvious, now. It was forgiven, just a bit of course, considering the situation with Hank's vacancy, but as Connor had hinted earlier, they had something that felt. . .

Well. . . special, really.

It was hard to put it into words, or a feeling. Difficult to try and parse at night, while he lay in the apartment after work, trying to catalogue why he felt such a gravitational pull towards the android. It was almost innate. Ingrained, even.

Odd.

It was new, and odd.

Maybe, if he had to chose a way to put it, it just felt like something small, and hopeful was growing inside of him. Bubbling occasionally to the surface when Nathan would crack a sardonic joke, or flash him one of those dazzling smiles, or secretly flip Reed off right along with him when he did something particularly grating.

When Nathan would hear those real, gritty cases, and feel just as ready to fly out the door to assist as he did.

He felt it fluttering somewhere beneath the surface in those instances.

When Nathan felt like an equal. A challenge.

And like he'd said before; Nathan's presence in his life felt like a force, like a promise that maybe. . .

No.

That _definitely_ , things were going to be okay.

Maybe it was the fact that they were in a holiday season, or maybe it was the fact that Connor had been summarily lacking a partner the past part of the year, or maybe none of those things at all, but he was sick and tired of feeling so pissed off. Sick and tired of moping around the station, making everyone forget that such a state of being isn't really 'him.' More than anything, he was sick and tired of placing the world's burdens on his shoulders, and his shoulders alone.

And the man in front of him, whose cloudy grey eyes were currently lighting up as he held the box out to him? Whose LED seemed to shine just a little bit brighter as Connor sees him ask himself 'what in the world did I do to deserve this?'

That wonderful _idiot_?

That man made the burden of the past year feel just a fraction lighter around him.

When they'd spoken, earlier, Connor hadn't expected to be so candid, and admit that in full. The conversation was coming, of course, and he'd expected it eventually. Yet something had come over him this evening. What is was, he didn't know. When the cavalcade of sentiments, especially the admission that he'd loved Hank --which no one else had been told before-- came from his lips, he was shocked the second the syllables left him. His preparatory conclusion when he'd thought of what to say before was a mere 'he was my partner, and he was a good man, and I'll miss him but I know that I'll be fine.'

Instead?

Nathan had received the full boar 'heart-on-a-sleeve' special.

There was something about him that just seemed to bring every emotion of Connor's right to the surface.

Much to Connor's relief, when he'd shed the few tears that he had, he didn't take it the wrong way. There had been a moment of slight panic when he feared the confession would come across as a declaration of Nathan's unworthiness.

Which wasn't the case at all, and thankfully not taken as such.

It was just. . . Hank had been such a prominent force in his life, for so very long. He needed to admit, for his sake as well, that he'd probably always feel the little ghost of Hank within him, somewhere, but it was a part of his past. What he really wanted to get across?

Was that he was ready to let it go.

Let _him_ go.

And be nothing else than Nathan Cole's partner. His friend. 

Someone important in his life, if that's what he wanted, as well.

And that's what this gift was for; to symbolize the beginning of their DPD partnership, camaraderie, friendship, whatever it wanted to be, and _firmly_ establish that Nathan Cole was going to receive regular gifts and sundries, and he was going to accept them with at least a cleverly fabricated modicum of thanks.

Or a real modicum, if he so chose. Which would all in all be better, in Connor's opinion, but he digressed.

In the present moment, Connor still isn't sure which reaction he's going to get as Nathan nervously clears his throat, finally making a half-gesture to take the thing from him.

"Jesus, I uh. . . thank you, Connor."

Nate peers down at the sparkling wrap, almost with a reverent look. He still seems unsure whether he should touch it, or just prostrate in the umbrage of the kindness.

So Connor rolls his eyes, and makes a decision for both their sakes, taking his hands in his own and placing the box firmly within them, superseding the wariness.

When they make contact, a little jolt shoots through him, surprised by how Nathan's skin is warm. More than that. It's emanating heat in that canonically hot way that all androids run, when his fingers find him, but somehow more. Hotter feeling than the cup of thirium Connor had been nursing earlier that evening, which is odd, considering that there was no way the temperature was higher in reality.

And it's soft. Incredibly soft, like all synthetic skin. But somehow, it seems even more gossamer than others. Like they'd put a special blend on his chassis when building him, unique to him and him alone. For some reason, Connor is overcome with the urge to touch it further, and ever so fleetingly traces the faintest line into Nathan's thumb while he lets the present go.

It feels like silk, and a warm sun.

He doesn't really know why he does it.

The compulsion; it's odd.

But it's done in a microsecond. Thankfully, Nate doesn't outwardly seem to notice, especially since Connor doesn't know what to think about the fact that he's done it, himself.

While he pulls his hands back and away, Connor also can't help but catalogue how those forearms look, in that detective-oriented mind of his. Well built, with a meager protrusion of synthetic muscle to feign athleticism to the untrained eye. But still full of power, and increased strength beneath their conservative build. Tanned, with a healthy glow, which is striking amid the more wan pallor of most in the wintertime. And there's a little constellation of freckles line the forearms, right above where the radoiocarpal joint should be under the plastic-weave. He hasn't noticed that, before. It could look something like the gemini, if you turned your head, and squinted.

Yet another thing he finds.

So many of those details, on his face. On his skin.

He keeps seeing more, and more all the time.

Connor doesn't think he could count them all, even if he tried. Something within him resonates, and all at once he's filled with an overwhelming urge, wishing he could know every one.

. . .Odd.

An odd, intrusive sentiment, that comes from nowhere.

The thought rather strikes him in his mind. Perhaps Connor was more far gone from proper stasis than he had originally assumed himself. He shakes his head a bit, trying to fling some of the random interjections from him, playfully rolling his eyes at the still perplexed look on Nathan's face. He laughs a bit to encourage Nathan to dissipate some of his own clear internal tension, and gestures below before any other curious sentiments can make their way to the forefront.

"You're welcome, really. Genuinely. I make it a point to give everyone important in my personal life something commemorative every holiday."

Nate startles just a bit at that, obviously catching the implication within the sentence, intentional, of course. 'You are someone who is important in my life.'

Nonetheless, Connor can see him steel himself, apparently needing the verbal confirmation of the suspected meaning anyway.

_Idiot._

"So. . . I just so happen to fit into that demographic, do I? The important people?"

He does.

Connor feels that with all of him, and it's kind of frightening, in a way, considering how quickly it had placed itself there in such a short while.

But even if he was just beginning to know him as a partner, and an android, or person. . . Nathan had found it so important that Connor be able to simply be himself, last Friday. Put what he needed as paramount, before anything else. Not a job, not an assignment, just Connor's joy. It didn't matter how long he had known him, he'd simply jumped right in, letting Connor know that he was important, and _mattered_.

On a plainly mannered level, the least Connor can do is engage in positive reciprocity, all things considered.

_But it was more than that._

After last Friday, when he'd gotten home, and the apartment had greeted him so much quieter than the cacophonous evening, he couldn't help but replay the night over and over in his head. After that car ride, and the invigorating feeling of some deific ichor running through his chassis? An admittance was needed, with that thrumming in his veins, and the fact that he felt like he was about to burst, even two hours after.

It was maybe the most intimidating sentiment of all.

He doesn't see himself with Hank, as his partner, anymore. Not that he can't remember that time, that is, but when he thinks about the word 'partner,' the first thing that comes to mind is that sarcastic grin. The look they shared in the field, with Tupickow tied up underneath them, and that pristine feeling that they can do anything together if they tried.

Logically, it was ridiculous to think that he'd gone from skeptical to accepting so quickly, especially since it was only the one mission. Two mere weeks, in the end. While he'd scratched behind Sumo's ears on the couch that night, it felt a bit strange to have such a strong opinion garnered in such a short time. But the evening itself, skipping from a perfect concert between two friends --yes, friends, it felt like, if he was being honest with himself-- to hunting down the low-life he'd been trying to wrangle for a year?

It was like fate was slapping him on the wrist, telling him to pay closer attention. He didn't believe in any deities, or universal machinations, but nonetheless, it was plain.

So he decided to listen. Connor laid there, opened himself to the whispers on the air, and hearkened to what he genuinely felt inside of him, hearing it well up from within him.

_'You're going to be okay. Things are already getting better. You've got so much to live for, and Nathan is here to stay.'_

And right before he'd drifted off into stasis? The faintest little voice?

_'You want him to.'_

So he'd taken that latent sentiment, and tied it up in pretty gold wrap with an ornate Christmas bow. He wants that belonging to come across as he looks deeply into those grey-rain eyes, with nothing but wild candor, and satisfaction that it's him that's here, on Christmas morning. Connor tries to think of something that can express that much, in so little words, and ends up with something so very simple.

"You're my partner, Nathan. Of _course_ you're important to me."

Something unreadable flashes in Nathan's eyes, to the very brim. Connor thinks it could be something between shock, or nervousness, or shame (for whatever reason), but it's a little half-despondent flicker that says a dozen different things. Before Connor can really get a read, as quick as it comes, it shifts into something warm, and bright, throwing Connor for just a little bit of a loop while the Detective's fingers finally decide to pry apart the wrap, and reveal the gift inside.

The man, at every turn, continued to be a conundrum. A wild, unfathomable, bizarre edition to the equally unthinkable year.

Connor smirks while Nathan's hands work, and for some reason, his eyes remain transfixed at that little heavenly pattern of freckles, and the way they move in the dimmed precinct light.

. . .Odd.

Odd, indeed.

Finally, Nate finds the cardboard sitting underneath the wrap, and pries open the angled piece of clear tape lining the top. The lid flips open, and when his hand darts in, and out, a single, red and white coffee mug is revealed, adorned with a St. Bernard in reindeer antlers, stating 'Merry Woofmas.' Within the cup itself, there's a rectangular white piece of paper that says 'wait for it.'

Nathan holds the thing so delicately in his hands, cradling the mug between his fingers, turning it over, and over again, not yet addressing the paper within. Connor doesn't wait for him to ask, or throw another bewildered gesture forth again, and explains the gift before him.

"I like dogs, if you hadn't noticed, or heard. Not sure how you could have missed it, but I have a St. Bernard named Sumo. A gargantuan fur-ball. I really love him, in all honesty. Somehow over the years I've found myself with about a dozen dog-themed mugs of sorts in my apartment, and I figured that you'd perhaps appreciate something a bit lighthearted, so. That one--"

Connor gently points down, to the red and green lettering, and the little snowflake pattern that makes up the words.

"--Was the first one I ever bought. Well, I didn't buy it, necessarily. It was a gift, rather. From my partner. A little housewarming token to commemorate my new life. My deviation. My first apartment. My first job. . .You're starting over, as well. Everything here is new. This town. This precinct. That apartment of yours on West Canfield. You're re-doing everything over again. And this mug, I've used it more times than I can count over the years, whenever I felt a little lost in all of that newness, and I guess it just felt. . . appropriate, I suppose. To let you know you're not the only one who needed to begin life over again. That you can take your time with your new beginning, if you need. And that it's okay. And also. . . that I'll be here, if you need me."

Nathan says nothing. Does nothing at all but swallow heavily, and take the smallest, shakiest breath in.

Connor taps his fingers a bit at his side, a bit perplexed with how heavy the words he'd just said were, yet again this evening. When Nate continues to say nothing, he thinks maybe he'd gone just a little too far. Connor calculates there's a pretty fair chance he's feeling some sort of overwhelmed, so he decides to dial things back a bit with some attempted humor to try and break things up.

"The secondary part of the gift, which you should be receiving via message any second now, is another playlist with further songs that even you and your pedestrian tastes might enjoy. It is a requirement, not a suggestion, that you return with your opinion on every track listing as soon as your processors can possibly handle. I expect results before the New Year, thank you very much."

Nate's temple flashes yellow just a bit as Connor watches him access his internal files, just to confirm. Any second now he should be seeing an attachment labeled 'Music Even An Idiot, Specifically _Nathan Cole_ , Can Enjoy, If He Actually Bothers to Give it a Try.'

Connor can tell the moment that he reads the title, because Nate rolls his eyes, and flashes them forward and saying 'really, seriously, you've got to be kidding me.' But there's no hostility, or annoyance, in the meaning behind the look. Just pure, unadulterated thankfulness, and it fills Connor to the brim.

Suddenly, the unsure tension is gone. That dubious way Nathan had been considering the gesture rolls off his shoulders like the tide, and Connor can practically see it. Their grins reach further still as they laugh at Connor's brash demand. There's relief, and elation, and a certain specific ecstasy, and Connor thinks that he may have outdone himself this year with what he chose.

But what Connor buzzes with more than anything is sheer joy; happiness. A wellness of spirit. A longing to share this look again soon, even if they're still in the middle of experiencing it. And yet again, a little bubble of something bright, from somewhere within him, that he feels more and more all the time, but still can't quite figure out the true meaning of.

It always comes, when Nathan is there, it seems.

Odd.

So very, incredibly, odd.

Maybe he'll de-frag enough to figure that out when he gets home later.

Though strangely, something tells him that moment may come soon enough.

So he just laughs, a sound of pure mirth and amusement, and gives the detective a little wink, because that will do for now. The meaning can wait until later. All he cares about is right here, in this moment, with Nathan's lopsided grin at his side.

The Detective immediately flushes, and quickly turns his gaze back towards the cup in his hands, gently running his hand over the embossed dog on the side, obviously trying to ignore the smile blazing across Connor's cheeks.

Poorly, he might add.

"I also thought you'd appreciate your own mug for thirium and the like, seeing as you continue to burn through single-use cups at an unprecedented rate, lately."

"Connor, I. . ."

He can tell that Nathan is still more than a little choked up, so he graciously saves him from the betraying little catch in his voice, and interjects.

"You don't need to thank me, really, just. . . I meant what I said, earlier. I think we'll do a lot of great things, together, and I want you to know that this is me fully accepting you. As my partner, that is."

Connor grabs him lightly on the shoulder. It's so incredibly forthwith. Maybe even forward. But full of every bit of acceptance he can muster.

"And my friend, too."

Inside, in that bright place within him as well:

_'Along with whatever else may come.'_

. . .

Odd.

There's a noise throughout the station before either of them can react further.

Behind them, they hear the doors to the precinct open, and almost by instinct, both androids flinch. Connor hopes, almost prays that it's anything but another set of holiday-garbed nuns, or violent criminal, because the timing would be anything but comedic. They've managed a full hour now without any interruptions, and wouldn't it just be a Christmas miracle if they could round out the night without any more paperwork?

He especially hopes it's not another depraved asshole with stories of shoddily stolen fish.

 _Anything_ , at all, but _that._

He quickly paces out of the break room and into the main hall, to see what misfortune they've befallen at 1:27am.

But the only thing that comes barreling through the door is Detective Reed, phone pressed to his ear, chatting away some vague, trite, no doubt inappropriate content to who Connor assumes is Nines. The only person Reed bothers to talk to with any sense of decency, which is the case here judging by the slight smile and lack of 'fuck you's' emanating from his general direction.

So, a false alarm.

Not that he's any particularly more pleased to see the heathen rather than the aforementioned fish bandit, but one had to pick their battles wisely during Hell Week, he supposes.

He leaves Gavin to his own disreputable machinations, and goes back towards Nathan.

When he rounds the corner, he's flipped the switch on the thirium steamer yet again to brew himself a cup, already eager to use his new gift, much to Connor's satisfaction. When the steamer pings, and the brewing is finished, he grabs it gently in hand, and they start to make their way back to their respective desks, reminded they're still on the job after all now that Gavin's begun to stink up the place like a cigarette box on his re-entry.

While they pace in tandem, Connor notices that Nate is still holding the box and wrapping paper gently in his arms, and throws up a questioning look as to why it's not in the recycling bin behind them.

Nate simply snorts, and rolls his eyes, giving Connor a smug little glare.

"Come on, you're just gonna drop something like this on me and not expect me to run out and try and one up your 'Merry Woofmas' cup?"

Nathan shakes the mug just a bit in front of him, careful not to spill, sarcastically.

Not necessarily, Connor muses to himself, not having expected any kind of gesture in return, since he didn't receive anything for half of his gifts anyway.

But the thought that Nate's already scrabbling to think of something to get him as well. . . it's nice.

More than nice.

It makes his thirium pump beat just a pace or two off kilter.

. . .

Odd.

But it's almost as if he likes the feeling.

And speaking of odd--

"Yes, but why the wrapping paper?"

Nate balks a bit, turning just a tad blue at the gills, and huffs at the sheer audacity of the question.

"Oh. That, _Connor_ , is because CyberLife may have programmed me using more money than I'll ever see in my lifetime, but the one thing they can't buy, is my ability to understand how the fuck to do _this_ Martha Stewart shit."

He waggles the box emphatically, gesturing to the pristine bow that he'd so carefully left intact, and Connor barks out a laugh.

He really intended to reuse the box, just because it looked so nice.

What an _idiot._

"Well, if even CyberLife's most promising scientists weren't able to fit such a crucial feature into your programming, what _did_ they manage to fit in that thick skull of yours, Detective?"

"Oh, you know."

They reach their desks, and Nathan flops down, raising his arms behind his head, setting the cup down with a soft thud before he lands in the chair, propping his wingtips up on a desk next to his own.

"Stamina. Speed. Agility--"

He reaches down and grabs the cup again, blowing just a bit at the steam rolling off of the top.

"--the ability to do about three-hundred different things with my tongue."

Connor stills, jutting to a halt between lifting his own chipped and cracked mug to his lips, and a little bit of thirium rolls out the side and onto the desk below while he startles. Nate almost chokes on his own sip, obviously realizing the rather lewd undertone to the comment, completely surprised that he'd opted to throw out such an entendre at the drop of a hat.

"I uh, _fuck_ , I mean languages. _Languages_ , Jesus Christ, sorry. I can do all the language shit that you can."

Nathan immediately retracts, coughing lightly, and begins hastily sipping at the contents of the cup, clearly trying to shove anything but his foot in his mouth. Connor sets his mug back down, only slightly bewildered by the sudden turn into something rather comedically suggestive.

He's not entirely sure how to react to the blunder.

Or the fact that Nathan was. . . flirting, with him?

No amount of Detective ability seems to be able to find another explanation, or something worthwhile to offer at the Freudian slip. So Connor chooses the most innocuous thing he can, blush involuntarily rising to his cheeks, while he tries to save Nathan from himself, since he was obviously flustered at the choice of words.

That makes two of them.

"Ah, I uh. . . I see."

It comes out a bit stilted, in all honesty, even though he doesn't mean it to. Unable to help it, Connor gets up as quick as he can, and heads back to the break room for a napkin or two to wipe up the mess he's made, attempting to extricate himself from the awkward situation, because he really just doesn't know how to respond. He stops briefly once he rounds the corner, when he sees his reflection in the glass panel surrounding the little room, and catches how flushed he looks.

He can't seem to shake the implication from his mind.

The 'three hundred things that Nathan can do with his tongue' somehow makes its way onto the list of 'details about Nate that I want to know, and more.'

Which is _odd_.

Or. . . was it?

Just how many times had he been stricken with the word this evening? Between the gift, and the stuttering, and the burned feeling at his cheeks?

So many things felt odd, and wonderful, at the same time today. The past few days, actually, and Connor's processors whirl within him while he fists a good five towels, trying to parse how he feels about it all. He slowly retreats back to their corner of the station, a bit chaotic, internally.

Nathan can't seem to find Connor's general direction for any sort of eye contact when he returns, and they dissolve into a slightly embarrassed silence while Connor cleans up.

A thought comes across his vision, as he sits back down, and tries to work backwards through all the times he's been sidetracked with the the duality of sentiments in the past few hours.

So many little compulsions have seemed to come over him, lately. So many things that have blindsided him with a fervent need to be. . . close.

The touch. The gift. The need to share something of himself, and give it to Nathan, who was starting to be at the forefront of his mind at a rate that was so surprisingly frequent.

It was all so new, and strange.

And yet. . .

There was something comforting, about the way it felt.

That tangled mix of elation, and nervousness, and fascination with the man whom he'd known for such a short time, but felt as if there was no possible way it had only been that long, more every day. And sometimes there was pride, and a surge of confidence like Connor had never known, and the overwhelming urge that Nathan Cole needed to know that he was safe around him.

And the urge for him to know that he felt right at home next to him, in return.

So many of those feelings in such a short amount of time. Perhaps he was projecting just a bit of his own personal frustrations outwards, latching onto something as he was coming back from the brink, and up to the surface again, but he didn't think that was entirely the case.

Almost as if he was telling himself 'yes, that's right' deep down, that little nagging feeling of something sitting in his chest, just underneath the surface, begins to twinge just a bit. A metaphorical pull, towards the man just a few feet away.

As they sit there, together, in the quiet of the station, and the stale coffee and thirium wafts in the air around them, a memory comes into his mind.

Of the first night, those two years ago, sitting where Nathan is now, when he first began to yearn for the hand of a man who made him burn brighter than a star.

The deep yearning to bring it close, and count the lines, until he had every inch of it memorized.

The beginning of late nights spent wondering what it would feel like, if he could lead that hand, and the man it belonged to, away around the corner during one of their breaks, and fumble with hurried hands, in the corner in the dark.

And how he longed to feel it run over every inch of him, in languid strokes, until they were so exhausted they could barely breathe, by the break of dawn.

Yes. He felt a bit like that, tonight. Not all of it, not the same incandescent supernova, even. . .

But he finally knows what that little bit of 'something' within him really means.

Something within him resonates, pangs in his chest, almost as if it's shouting 'yes, there it is, I'm glad you could join in, we're finally on the same page.' His cheeks flush further, as the revelation sparks within him, the recognition of that same kind of need.

The craving.

Those embers of desire that had thrummed within him, and slowly burned him, from the inside out.

But this fire is different. It's not quite the same. It’s not a small, clandestine thing, aching away deep within him once he finally finds it there. This feels more. . . wild. More fervent. 

An inferno of want, and the desire to make it so.

As he mulls it over within him, unlike those years ago, it doesn't get hidden again.

It doesn't get pushed down, with a heady little sigh, saying 'ah well, what can you do, don't ruin your new life now, because you're just an android with one friend and partner, and that matters more to you than anything else.'

_No._

Instead, it wells within him. Churns, and grows, and fills him until his hands are trembling slightly beneath his desk where he's clasping them before him. But it's not from nerves, or shyness, or reservation at the thought. It's. . .

Determination.

A want.

A _need._

Besides. . . hadn't he already done something he had never dared before?

He'd reached out to those hands, some thirty minutes ago, without any hesitation, and felt that gossamer skin. Traced those finely worked lines, and felt their heat in his palms. He already had a taste of what those hands could feel like, tracing up and down in his own, and beyond.

He's taken the plunge, over that perilous fall, even before he knew he had the desire within him. And now?

Now, he only wants _more._

He doesn't want to spend two years, pining behind a desk, and his cowardice, wishing secretly that the other hand would take the reigns, and give him something that he desperately wanted. He wasn't going to miss his chance.

He wasn't that android anymore.

He was Connor; an android who'd been born into hell, and clawed his way back out of it again to forge a life, and a career, of which he was _proud_. He was a friend, and a loving brother, and he'd found himself again, after the darkest days that he could imagine, when he didn't think it would be possible. And he was _done_ ignoring what he felt within him. He was done wasting away emotionally, until the day came when it was too late, and any opportunity at anything more was gone. His life was his own directive. _Nobody_ else's.

So he makes himself a promise, right then and there.

He will take that hand, and hold it close, with _real_ intention next time. With every bit of desire laid plain, so he can let the universe know that he wants even more, no matter what it has to say about it, and he'll dismantle anyone, or anything stupid enough to get in the way of his chasing that feeling.

Something he suspects the other man wants, too.

All of the signs, ingrained into his programming, tell him that something is happening across the way, at that desk that was once his own. The way that Nathan had flushed, looked nervous, let slip a little joke about tongues, and a promise for what he could do. How he'd felt so emotional, realizing that Connor was spelling out his own desire for his companionship, as he had. 

It all suggests to him that Nathan may want something more, deep down.

Maybe he doesn't recognize it himself yet, or maybe he does, but he suspects that it's there.

After all, who is he, at the end of the day?

_He's the most advanced model that CyberLife has ever created, and everything tells him that he's right, and he knows it in his synthetic bones._

And this time, he isn't going to forget that when that urge to reach out comes over him. If the moment seems right, or perfect, or even halfway promising, he's going to stretch out his hand, and decide his own fate, for once in his life, consequences be damned. Whatever it turns into, even if its just one night, or one moment, or turns into nothing at all. . .

At least he'll have done it, and given them the chance.

It's more than he and Hank had ever gotten.

_So that's what he's going to do._

Suddenly, a little 'ping' comes out from the terminal in front of him, punching through the monologue, breaking the reverie. A microsecond later, he's accessing his station, bringing up his internal messages to see what in the world it could be, especially at this hour.

It's a message from Reed.

Unfortunately.

Leave it to him to send something blithering at the most intimate and personal time of his internal dialogue.

He almost immediately sends it to his spam folder before seeing the email is titled 'Don't fuckin delete I promise it's important.' Somehow, through the grace of what force, he does not know, he manages to cull the compulsion, and braces himself for whatever short, to the point, riddled with spelling errors and punctuation that resembles a toddler's effort message it could possibly be.

* * *

**MESSAGE RECEIVED: 2:02AM // DECEMBER 25TH, 2040**

_'Yo, tin-can two. Nines says to get your ass over 2 our place Monday night. 8:00. 31st._

_I checked Fowlers calender and we're both off work so no lame excuses._

_New Years shindig, just the three of us._

_Or bring someone if you want. Cole maybe. Nines wants 2 meet m. Make it a hot date. :) :) :) :) :) :) :)_

_Or not, who fuckin cares._

_But BE THERE._

_We alredy bought all the shit for it._

_P.S., Nines says you can run, but you can't hide._

_Com see ur bro._

_I'll behave._

_Possibly ;)_

_But srsly I will if you come._

_xoxoxoxo,_

_Gav_.'

* * *

Somehow, it's simultaneously worse, and at the same time more cohesive than he expected.

He sighs a bit, and reads through the message again, affirming to himself that Nines and Reed had yet again formulated another scheme to get him out of the office, and into some shenanigan with them at home. Not that he didn't _appreciate_ the gestures, before, but he hadn't felt like doing much the past few months no matter how many times they continued to ask, and especially not with Gavin present.

Plus, it was a bit strange that Reed had felt compelled to extend the offer to Nathan, considering that the Detective only ever wanted anything to do with his brother, and himself by familial association.

He raises his head to try and find Reed, and badger him about precisely the motivation behind the shoddily constructed message, but when his eyes scan the horizon, he's already gone for the evening. Connor's eyes narrow a bit, and an unamused scowl settles on his face.

So that's how it was, huh? Formulate a scheme, and scurry off into the night before Connor could investigate further.

_Typical._

Nathan seems to spy the disdain on his face from around the corner, and sets his own inquisitive look towards Connor's scowl, leaning out into the aisle. Connor simply brushes his sour expression off with a quick shake of his head.

"It's nothing, Nathan."

. . .

"Okay, if you say so."

And the android turns back to his own terminal.

Connor keeps his eyes on the slight bit of Nathan's right side that remains in his vision as he turns, mulling over the portion of the invitation that included Nathan in his brain.

Did he particularly want to spend New Year's Eve with Gavin Reed, in any form or fashion?

_Not really._

Did he want to spend time with his brother, considering it had been quite some weeks since he'd seen him, and it was understandable that he may have become a slight bit worried again?

_He did._

And bringing Nathan along as well. . . it might be a good opportunity to feel out some of those signals he'd surmised. To see if there really was something there, beneath the surface of Nathan's mind, just like there was under his.

And hell, it might not be some cataclysmic, earth shattering feeling of love, or passion in the end, but whatever it was, Connor wasn't going to ignore it. Even if it was only a misconception, or even less, he still owed it to himself to try.

Besides. . . he really didn't want to tackle dealing with an inevitably drunk, 'holiday Gavin' on his own.

So he makes up his mind, and forwards the email, just for proof that it wasn't his idea (if that would be too blunt), and asks Nathan if he'd like to go with him when he opens the message on his own.

"You don't have to, of course, but it would be nice for my brother to be able to meet you. He gets worried about me here, It'd do him some good to know I'm in capable hands."

Nathan seems to ponder the offer a moment, chewing at the inside of his mouth, LED going a bit yellow.

"I mean sure, if you need me to keep Mr. Grabby-Hands-McAsshole away from you if he gets wine-drunk on New Years, I'm game."

Connor laughs, and rolls his eyes, because the sentiment is entirely too accurate. An anecdote flies up into his mind.

"Yes, he did confuse me for Nines once when it was too dark to see anything in their kitchen, before. 'Grabby' doesn't even begin to cover it. A heinous evening. I still shudder at the memory."

"Really?" Nathan's eyes widen a fraction, and he chuckles a bit as well while Connor shivers at the recollection. "I didn't know that."

"Yes, well, I'd rather not repeat that nightmare of a scenario, so your attendance would be appreciated for that reason, at the very least. But really, though--"

Connor clears his throat a bit, and looks Nathan in the eye, straight on.

"--I just think it would be nice to spend some more time with you. . . After hours, I mean. If. . . that's alright with you?"

Nathan quickly breaks the gaze, and blushes just a bit, beginning to chew at his cheek again in what Connor recognizes as his signature nervous gesture. He takes a few seconds, and it tells Connor that he's likely unsure, and excited at the prospect, but can't quite bring himself to say it.

Connor can't do anything but smile.

Oh yeah.

He's right.

"Yeah, I uh. . . If that's what you want. Sure."

Nathan finally finds his voice, takes a short breath in, and meets Connor's gaze again with something rather serious in his look. Almost as if he's trying to let Connor know that he can detect something else in the meaning of the gesture, and if it's what he thinks it is, that Connor had better be sure of what he was asking.

He was a detective himself, after all.

And Connor is. He's sure.

He wants it.

_(He wants him.)_

So he nods, and gives Nathan the most honest smile that he can, letting him know that he meant every word, on the surface, and between.

"It's what I want, Nate."

"Well then, Monday night it is."

It's a date.

"Fantastic. Do you want to meet there, or--"

"Yeah, sure. That's fine, or we could--"

"Drive together? That's alright with me as well, although if that's the case you'll have to listen to that playlist I sent you. Perfect opportunity to see if you actually heeded my carefully worded warning about how serious I was."

Connor flashes a wicked little grin.

"Oh, forgive me, _your musical excellency_ , I forget that my impudence knows no bounds."

" _Impudence_? Very strong vocabulary, Detective."

"Hey, what did I tell ya--"

Nathan rocks back in his chair, and those grey eyes smolder under the halogen lights, flashing something dangerous, and bold, and playful towards Connor, now that they seem to have admitted just a little something to one another.

"--three- _hundred_ things."

And that was that, for now.

They spend the rest of the night rather normally, anything but awkward. It's filled with little jokes, and occasional conversation, and a blush or two in between.

Their gravity has shifted yet again. Connor notices things even more. The way Nathan's thumb keeps pawing the embossed words on the cup. The way his eyes flash with something Connor reads like wanting, when he laughs at one of Nathan's horrible, only half-funny jokes. The way that constellation of freckles ripples on his arm whenever he moves, and how he caught another star-field somewhere between on his torso below, when he'd stretched so languidly as the night finally came to a close.

So many things, about this man, this android, that Connor doesn't know.

And god, more than anything, he wants to find them out.

The night finally ends with a whimper when the clock reads 4:00am. Between the talk, and the mug, and the fact that he finally recognizes what's been stirring within him when he looks at his partner, just over there, barely out of reach, Connor finds it comes quick as a blink of an eye.

They pack up together, gathering their things in their hands, and Connor laughs a final time at the little brown box, still covered in wrap, nestled between Nathan's jacket and bag, as they begin to go. They just so happen to find Chen, and Miller, while they exit the station, both looking nonplussed at picking the short straw for Christmas Day duty while they head inside, hobbling tiredly down to the garage to get in the Behemoth. A quick little 'fuck you for getting to be home right now,' and they both just laugh.

A calm fatigue rolls over him as Connor backs up the Ford, and brings her to the surface level, to the gate of the garage.

When they break towards the surface, they get a surprise.

It's snowing, heavily, on the road in front of them. The heaviest snowfall they've gotten so far this year. White, pristine flakes dance down from the heavens towards them, lighting up the sky with a ballet of perfect crystals. They shine, and shimmer, caught between the street lamps, and the neon of signs across the way, and the clear white moon far above their heads.

It's a white Christmas.

"Beautiful."

The words pass Nathan's lips so quietly, and intimately, that Connor barely hears them. He turns to his partner, in the cracked bucket seat, who's leaning forward to catch the full breadth of the scene before they start cutting tracks in the fresh powder beyond. His eyes are so wide, so full, taking in every single detail, the same way that Connor is now.

But he's not looking at the road. He's not looking at the snow. He doesn't have eyes for anything else but the man to his right. He's gazing at the soft blue flush that's lining Nate's cheeks, down to that tanned, lithe neck, and the faintest hint of a smile, at the corner of his lips. The almost child-like wonder, at the snow, and the morning, and the enchantment that's falling from the sky.

It's like he's seeing this kind of snowfall, for the very first time.

Maybe he is, Connor thinks, and his heart aches at the very idea. How special that would be.

It's so honest. So _real._ So genuinely heart-wrenching, that it hurts a bit to see such an unprecedented fascination.

He's glad he could be here. While Nathan looks like he's seeing the world all over again, for the very first time.

His thirium pump quickens underneath him.

Connor adds this moment to the list. The list of a hundred different things that he's noticed about Nathan Cole.

Within him, that bright inferno burns hotter even still. His own faint concession graces his lips.

"Yes. . . beautiful."

He isn't talking about the snow.

This time, the thought isn't odd. It just seems _right._

But Nathan doesn't have to know.

Not yet, anyway.

He will when the moment is right.

Connor pulls the Behemoth onto the road, and out they go, towards the street beyond.

**Author's Note:**

> HEY! Do you like the art in this fic? Well I do art commissions on the side! I also do STORY COMMISSIONS if you've got an idea in your head, but don't know how to make it happen. If you'd ever like to hit me up for a cover, character reference, fic, or general piece use the link below to find me on other sites or comment here!
> 
> https://linktr.ee/auxblood


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